To Suffer and Be Strong
by Chronic Potterphile
Summary: A run-of-the-mill job turns out to be much more complicated when Sam and Dean find themselves in a fight that is more than just physical to them. [Case!fic with a side of hurt!boys, with angst and schmoop. Takes place after episode 10.05, Fan Fiction].
1. Chapter 1

**Fandom/Genre:** SPN, hurt/comfort, angst, case!fic, gen, hurt!boys , schmoop, brother-touching  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sam, Dean  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13

**Spoilers:** Up until episode 10.05, Fan Fiction  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> ~21k  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> swearing, violence, gore  
><strong>Summary:<strong> A run-of-the-mill job turns out to be much more complicated when Sam and Dean find themselves in a fight that is more than just physical to them.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of this! Just playing in Kripke's sandbox.

**Acknowledgements:**

There are several people I would like to thank, who are responsible for this fic coming through the way it did. I was somehow pretty busy whilst writing this big bang, and it was quite hard for me to produce.

So there are several people behind this fic being successfully written, and I'd like to thank, in no particular order:

**kj_svala**, my wonderful artist, for making that beautiful graphic, which planted this idea in my head in the first place. Really, she is awesome, everyone, please go see the art. I was ogling for hours and hours until I had tears in my eyes. 333333333333

**amberdreams**, who is a fabulous beta, and who returned this to me in ninja speed, with lovely inputs and corrections.

The mods on the **SPN Reversebang** forum, who hosted this challenge, and then even granted me a nice extension when I spoke to them about my time constraints.

**SPNXBookworm**, for being my eternal cheerleader, and for being a beautiful person overall.

**A/N:** This fic is a simple case!fic with some hurt!boys thrown in. It picks up directly after episode 10.05, Fan Fiction, and is one of the least complicated, completely gen fics I've written. Expect schmoop and brother-touching, though, because that's who I am.

The title was inspired from HW Longfellow's poem, _The Light of Stars_. Apart from that, the fic contains poetry verses — and that's written by me. It's written in pantoum style and I haven't written poetry in a long time, so please forgive me if it's not all that up to the mark. I might have forgotten some rules :S. The verses are also woven into the fic. Hope you enjoy! :)

The story will update every Monday. If you like Destiel with hurt!boys, you can have a look at the other fic I'm co-authoring, _Just Walk Beside Me._ :)

* * *

><p><strong>TO SUFFER AND BE STRONG<strong>

**One**

_Round and round; here we go _

_Life and death and circles more _

_Into the abyss we fall slow _

_There's no floor and we soar, we soar_

**Now**

Your legs vibrate beneath you, and your eyelids are screwed shut, strips of darkness soothing your eyes between the sharp bars of light. You have no clue where you are. Your head is pressed against something soft, and your hands tremble on your lap. Your heart races at a mile an hour, making it difficult for you to catch a breath.

Something wet slips down your forehead and catches on your eyebrow, as nausea bubbles in the pit of your stomach. You try to move, but your whole body feels like it's frozen stiff, and you can't find the strength to even twitch. You wonder, vaguely, if you're dying, when you hear a soothing voice.

"Hey, you up?"

You want to reply, really reply. But you can't. Your mouth won't coordinate with your brain.

"Sammy?"

A hand is on your knee. You take a heaving breath, and try to talk again, but all that comes out is a moan. The hand pats your knee slowly. "Take it easy. We'll get you somewhere comfortable…"

You realise, belatedly, that this is Dean. Of course it's him. Who else do you have in your life? And, well, there's Cas, but…

"Go to sleep," Dean soothes. His own voice sounds shaky, and slightly feeble. You wonder if he's hurt.

"I'm okay," he says. "I'm gonna be all right. And so are you."

Are you? Are you both really going to be okay? There's so much hanging above you — so much you have to face, that this is really a question. What does it mean to be okay? What does it mean to not worry? When was the last time that you have been completely carefree?

A jolt of pain leaps through your body, and you almost scream, as your thoughts crumble away. This hurts. It all hurts. So much. You can't move and you can't talk and the pain is getting worse. You just want it all to go away. You just want to feel nothing. You want to be numb.

The thoughts bring another jab of pain, and even though it's only for a second, it's white-hot and pure. Your cells, your nerves, and your body scream in protest as you try to curl up. But you can't.

You don't want this. You don't want to go through this. Not again. Not again…

An embarrassing whimper escapes your lips, and you know for sure, now, that Dean is going to burst out laughing.

But he doesn't.

"Shhh," he says, as he squeezes your knee. "Go back to sleep, Sammy. You'll feel better in a while. I promise… I promise…"

There is something about the way he says it. There is something about how, despite being tired, he seems so confident — that you will, indeed, be all right, and that it will all go away. So you do the very thing that you've been doing since your childhood.

You just listen to his words and let yourself believe him, before succumbing to a shroud of blackness.

**0**

**Then**

It was sunny in Lebanon when Sam and Dean pulled into town. Sam let out a sigh of relief as he saw the familiar churches and houses, and rolled his shoulders a couple of times to get rid of the knots from sitting in one position for too long. His injured shoulder was particularly sore, and though he'd been able to ditch the sling, it wasn't a hundred per cent, and Sam reckoned he'd need to take the aspirin for it, after all.

He was relieved to be getting back to the bunker — _home_, because as great as these last few days of alone time with his brother had been, he was itching to properly work on cases again. Sam wasn't used to sitting down and living normal in a while. The four months that he looked for Dean had been rigorous — each waking hour important. And then there was this last case, which had been… _strange_, to say the least. And 'strange' was a massive understatement, but Sam didn't want to think any deeper than that.

He turned to the wooden prop amulet that Dean had hung on the rear-view mirror, and couldn't help the smile forming on his lips. It seemed like a long time ago that Dean had thrown the amulet away, but Sam could still hear the echo of metal hitting against metal as the amulet had fallen to the bottom of the bin. He hadn't reacted then — too shocked to do anything about it, but he had hesitated over the dustbin, hand hovering as his eyes focussed on the bronze figurine and the leather strap.

And his heart had broken. He had realised that there was no use in retrieving it out of the trash, because Dean wouldn't ever want it back, would never believe in Sam again — so Sam had left, trying not to think too much.

Not that Sam had ever acknowledged any of this to Dean. Dean didn't bring it up either, but Sam wouldn't miss how his brother's hand would seek out the amulet for days after that, his muscle memory not letting him forget that he'd thrown it away. He'd look guilty, and then angry, but he wouldn't speak about it.

By the time Sam was back from Hell, though, Dean was used to the amulet not being around his neck.

Instinctively, Sam raised his hand to touch the prop. The light, wooden pendant felt smooth in his fingers, and Dean glanced at him. They'd not spoken all that much since the eventful musical, but this time, it wasn't one of _those_ silences — the ones that had been between them because they didn't want to talk, or were mad at each other. It was quiet because right now, they had no idea what to say without making it, as Dean and those fangirls would call it, a 'BM scene'.

Sam sighed. He had waited for this — for this moment of trust and acceptance for so long, he didn't even know what to say now. The last few years had been a long list of things Sam had done to disappoint Dean, and it hadn't been easy with his brother as a demon. Sam had no idea how he had pulled through — just that he had, without sticking a bullet in his own head, or losing his mind. And now his brother was right beside him, and had even told him — in his own way, that yes, he trusted Sam, and that no matter what, they were brothers. But this… this amulet — did it indicate that Dean hadn't actually meant what he had said to Sam, as a demon? That all those words about their mother wasn't something Dean had been carrying in his heart?

Demons lied, and Sam knew that. But they were known for being brutally honest too.

He reached for the amulet again, and beside him, Dean smiled. "You uh… you know that's here to stay, right?"

The smooth structure rolled between Sam's fingers. He blinked at his big brother. "Thanks, man."

"Nah, it was that girl — Sammy—"

"Sammy?"

"I forgot her name," Dean said, raising a hand to the back of his neck, so he could scratch it.

"Marie," Sam provided, his heart sinking slightly, although he wasn't sure why he wasn't so fond of Dean referring to anyone else as 'Sammy'. It had been a thing when he was a kid — born out of pure adoration for Dean, but as an adult, Sam hardly cared. His name wasn't uncommon, neither was his brother's nickname for him. And why had Marie had to talk Dean into this? Had Dean not done this because he wanted to?

"Yeah, Marie," Dean corrected himself. "She gave me this… Samulet… thing… and asked me not to be a jerk."

Sam snorted. "_Samulet_."

"That's what the kids called it," Dean shrugged. "I guess it's 'cause you gave it to me."

Sam chortled again. "Gosh, that thing has a name."

Dean cleared his throat. "I told her, though, that it wasn't necessary." Sam's heart began to sink further, but Dean spoke again. "You know, right, that the necklace wasn't a symbol of… anything?" He swallowed. "I shouldn't have thrown it away, but… I didn't need that thing to… you know…" Dean met eyes with Sam, and their gazes lingered on each other, until Sam nodded and coughed slightly.

Yes, he _knew_.

"Yeah, Dean," he said. He paused. "Thanks."

"Good," Dean mumbled. "Good."

"Good," Sam echoed him, staring straight at the road ahead, as he scratched his forehead.

Dean turned down a lane. "So, uh…" he said, "do we have beer?"

"There's a six-pack in fridge, yeah," Sam replied.

"That's cool." Dean hesitated. "Could rent a movie, though. Maybe get pizza…"

"Yeah, sure."

The silence that stretched between them as Dean pulled up outside the video store after that was much more comfortable than any exchange they'd had in a while.

**~o~**

_"__That's it, that's it."_

_The child's face was sweaty as he raised his head to look up from his cowering position on the stony floor. The room was dark, lit by a dying flame on a torch in a bracket. Distantly, the __**drip, drip, drip**__ of water could be heard, as though it were leaking from a faucet or a pipe. _

_Tears formed a film over the child's eyes, and his cracked lips quivered as they parted to whisper out one word. "Please."_

_"__You want more?"_

_This was a different voice — an adult, but he was in the shadows, somewhere near the dripping pipe. _

_"__P-Please," the boy sobbed, voice scratchy and tired._

_The man in the shadows laughed loudly._

_"__Hey! Stop!" Another voice interrupted the man's mirth —a woman this time — and the shadows shifted._

_"__Stop it," she reprimanded as she came out of the darkness, legs jean-clad, a hoodie pulled over her clothes with the hood covering her head and a lot of her face. A strand of blonde hair fell out and she pushed it back into her hood, before crouching beside the young boy. Slender hands held a goblet near his face. "Here, honey."_

_The boy looked up gratefully, thin fingers going to grip at the woman's wrists, but she moved away with a harsh shriek of laughter. The boy whined, raising his hand to her, and then stiffened, before hitting the floor in a dead faint. He lay like that for a moment and then his body arched against uneven stone, eyes opening to reveal strips of white as he pulled in a deep, rattling breath._

"NO!"

_The boy choked, and his limbs begin to flail, froth forming at his mouth and mixing with blood, pouring from the sides as he failed to breathe. What little could be seen of his lips, was turning blue. He choked, over and over, suffocating pitifully and trying to drag breaths, but his lungs kept failing him, until…_

"Stop!"

The dream dissolved away as Sam sat up abruptly on his bed, torrents of sweat running down his face, and arms outstretched to hold on to the non-existent, seizing child. He blinked at his dark surroundings and put his hands down, taking deep breaths as he did so. _Fuck_, that dream had seemed so real.

He rubbed his eyes, and then pinched the bridge of his nose against a building headache. The clock on his bedside table informed him that it was half-past six in the morning. Sam yawned, moving a hand over his painful shoulder. He freed himself from the twisted mess of blankets around him and headed to the sink in his room.

The mirror cabinet contained his aspirin. After dry-swallowing two, Sam brushed his teeth and splashed some water onto his face. He was up anyway, and it didn't feel like he'd be sleeping anytime soon, so he decided he might as well shower.

He pressed his fingers against his throbbing forehead once again, and went over to the drawers to collect his clothes. It was time to find new cases to work on, and get back into a routine. And Sam couldn't wait.

**~o~**

Dean stared at the glass of whiskey in his hands.

He had poured himself a little — and honestly, just a _little_, because this stuff went a long way to soothe his nerves.

Dean had had a nightmare. He'd kept stabbing Lester, killing him again and again, blood staining his hands, and his face, and at that point, Dean's brain had thankfully decided that this much graphic imagery was enough, and Dean had mercifully woken up. He hadn't been able to sleep after that, and had reverted to looking for cases on the laptop. Because it was one of the things that he and his brother did that constituted 'normal', and he needed that for now.

He pulled up his sleeve and took a good look at the Mark, which hadn't hurt in a while. Dean knew he would eventually have to kill again or suffer from the increasing need. The Mark being quiet right now didn't actually mean everything was all right, but he was glad of the tenuous peace he had with the Mark for now. They'd have to deal with it sooner or later. They'd probably have to go to Cain himself for a solution, or hope that the Men of Letters had been hiding a book about this crap. And Dean couldn't forget how Cain had made him promise he'd use the Blade on Cain when he called. Dean had been confused, then, but now it all made sense. And the son-of-a-bitch had tried to warn him too.

That would teach him to do reckless shit. And to think, Dean had been the one to pull Sam off the Trials just a few months before he took on the Mark. The same Trials that Sam had jumped into, without an idea that he could die.

Yeah. Sam and Dean didn't look similar and were probably poles apart in a lot of ways, but this; this shit proved that their DNA was, in fact, similarly coded. Why did Sammy have to take after him on crap like this?

Except, Sam's Trials stint hadn't led him to killing innocent people. And yes, he had been possessed by Gadreel, who had been a murdering bastard, but whose fault was it, that Sam was possessed? Who manipulated him into it?

After all the times Sam had been possessed, Dean had known that Sam'd never agree to it, and maybe he didn't understand his brother all the time, and didn't get the whole reason as to why Sam had been so _immensely_ upset at being possessed by Gadreel — because, yes, he had every right to be pissed, but Dean hadn't been looking to harm him. He had only wanted to save Sam's life.

Dean did know that it was his own mistake that led to the Gadreel fiasco, though, and he had decided to accept it, and refused to fight about it anymore. They'd had enough over the past year,. They had hurt each other sufficiently.

The Mark, on the other hand, had been something Dean had taken up himself. Sure, Crowley had nudged him into it, but it wasn't as though Dean hadn't had a choice. Maybe there had been other ways to kill Abaddon. And the Mark and Blade had done shit against Metatron. So yes, as much as Sam tried to beat himself for it, Kevin's death wasn't his fault. But Sam's head almost being bashed in by that hammer? That was definitely Dean's fault.

He pulled his sleeve back over the Mark, refusing to let his mind go back to _that_ place. He and Sam had had a good few weeks, and Dean felt like they were clicking together again — that everything that had been lost and gone was somehow coming back, and he knew, in a small corner of his mind, that if Sam hadn't had it in him to forgive Dean, they wouldn't be here.

The kid had a big heart. Dean had been a demon, running amok, and had Sam just stepped back, other hunters would have found Dean and killed him. But Sam came for him. Sam fucked up his shoulder and a whole lot of things in the process, yes, but he came back for Dean. He had done it despite all the hurt and betrayal he'd felt.

Dean wondered why there were so many gaps between him and Sam that couldn't be filled anymore. Earlier on, they could function as one unit no matter what, but they had been out-of-tune for a while now. How had things had got so difficult? Suddenly, there were certain things about Sam that Dean couldn't understand. They had never needed so many words to convey anything. Chick-flick moments, heart-to-hearts — it had rarely been them, because they always knew. _Everything_.

However, nowadays, it took effort. They weren't used to talking, so they didn't talk, but when they didn't, things got fucked up. All said and done, though, Dean did _know_ Sam. He knew Sam better than everyone else, even if he didn't _get_ his brother all the time, and that was enough for him. At least that much was left. The rest of their relationship was a gaping wound, festering away with neglect, brought to their attention, incidentally, by a few high-school girls. Both of them now recognised what they had lost. But Dean was confident that subconsciously, he and Sam were already working on it, and that sooner or later, they'd be the same as before.

"Hey."

Sam's voice dragged him out of his reverie, and Dean put down his glass as Sam entered the kitchen. "Hey," he replied.

His brother's eyes flashed a look of concern as he came to join Dean at the table. Dean sighed, pushing the whiskey away. "Just needed some to get over that weird show, man."

Sam snorted and grinned, but his eyes said that he didn't believe Dean. He stood up and went over to the coffee machine, picking up a mug on the way. Once he had settled back down with Dean and was sipping the steaming drink, he raised very obviously suspicious eyes at Dean.

Dean blinked and looked away for a moment. "Come on, Sammy."

"Dean," Sam breathed, setting his mug down. "You gotta—"

"I'll tell you if the crazies hit me, all right?" Dean said wearily. He didn't even have the juice to snap at Sam right now.

"Then why are you drinking? And if you tell me it's night somewhere—"

"I _told_ you," Dean replied. "I just need…" he rubbed his eyes, "Jesus, I just need a break, dude."

"We are on a break."

"Don't you go Ross Geller on me, Sammy, I'm not your Rachel."

"Shut up." Sam didn't look amused.

Dean tried to smile. "Come on, that was funny."

Sam looked at him for a long moment, and then shook his head. "Pathetic."

"What?"

"That wasn't even a good joke, Dean."

And it was dropped. Dean knew they wouldn't talk about it if he didn't want to — not immediately, anyway, and he gave his brother a genuine smile this time, as he reached over to shut the laptop. Sam, however, raised an eyebrow, stopping him. "Job?"

"Nah," Dean muttered, glancing at the news article. "A kid went missing somewhere in Idaho a few days ago and apparently, they've found a new lead to his case. It's been hitting the news lately, but it's not our gig. I don't think so anyway, because this shit seems to be down to a bunch of clever, sleazy, no-good humans. In that department, I'd prefer not to interfere."

Sam stood up from his place and came over, bending to look at the screen over Dean's shoulder. There was silence, and then finally—

"Oh."

Dean raised an eyebrow at his brother. "_Oh_?"

Sam straightened himself, and shrugged. "I – I guess you're… yeah, you-you're right, I th-think… uh…" his face looked pale as he went over to the sink to dump the coffee mug.

"Sammy?"

"I'm-I'm going to bed," Sam said, and his voice shook a little at the last word. Dean frowned.

"Sure, but didn't you—" he had barely finished the sentence, when Sam left the room, "— just wake up?" Dean finished in a mumble. What was wrong with Sam?

Dean glanced back at the kid's picture on his screen, and sighed. He'd have to find out what was going on with Sam. And then, just as he was about to shut the laptop, Dean saw it. On a side-panel in the page, was a small article about…

Lester.

_Oh_. That did explain a lot of things, including the way Sam had just behaved.

Dean licked his lips and shut the website as quickly as he could. Like Sam, he didn't want to think about it either. Not now. Preferably, not ever.

He stood up from his place and stretched. Maybe he should sleep too, he decided, as he put away the whiskey bottle and trudged out of the kitchen, to his room.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Reviews? :)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Hello, everyone! Thank you for the lovely response! Hope you keep enjoying the fic. :D

Here's the next chapter. Your thoughts will always be valued, please feed that hungry box below. :)

* * *

><p><strong>TO SUFFER AND BE STRONG <strong>

**Two**

_Life twirls, in circles more_

_Hold on, for it spins too strong_

_With no floor, you soar and you soar_

_Catch my hand; or fall I into the wrong_

**Now**

The comforting blackness gives away slowly with several overwhelming sensations that run throughout your body. You don't know what you're feeling; you can't make out what hurts, because every inch of your body is protesting. Your face feels hot, and you are hot and you want to get out of your skin and lie in a block of ice forever, because you can't take this. Torrents of sweat are running down your face and you are still stiff, your body unmoving, while your nerves short-circuit unbearably, the feeling assaulting you all over.

"Hey, hey, Sammy, calm down."

It's Dean again. His voice is low, and the floor under you is still rumbling, but you tilt sideways as it stops. You open your mouth to talk, but your lips are too dry. There is a cool, clammy hand against your brow, and a sharp intake of breath.

"Hang in there. We're reaching civilisation soon," Dean acquiesces. "We'll get you to a motel, yeah?"

You remember him promising a comfortable place to rest, and you wonder how long it's been since you last woke up.

There is a rattling sound, and Dean is prying your mouth open, his fingers gripping your chin to bring your jaw down. Two pills fall against your tongue, and you feel the rim of a water bottle against your lips.

"Swallow those," Dean says. "I'll give you the good stuff in a while, okay?"

You wonder again, how Dean is doing. His hand feels way too sweaty. What if he's not feeling well? He's not going to look after himself, and you know it.

"Sam," Dean says mildly. "Take the pills, dude. They'll get you better."

You obey him, and you swallow, feeling the water trickle down your oesophagus in a cool, soothing trail, dousing the flames inside your body. Dean keeps holding the bottle for you, and then takes it away after a couple of moments.

He then holds your shoulder steady a couple of moments, before tilting you against something soft, but he doesn't restart the car. You swallow, and wait, but the hand doesn't leave your shoulder. In that moment, the nausea in the pit of your stomach bubbles up to your throat.

"Sammy?"

You're not sure what's happening, but a hand is cupping your neck, and the next thing you know, you're leaning over, as a sudden blast of wind assaults your face. You open your eyes for a second — just for a second, to realise that you're facing asphalt. It spins in slow circles, making you shut your eyes again, and swallow, as a clammy palm braces your forehead and the other grips on to your arm, steadying you.

Suddenly, your stomach heaves, and you're retching, each gag sending pain through your abdominal muscles while your stomach cramps and struggles to expel its contents. You open your eyes again, and are alarmed by the spatter of thick, rusty-brown on the road. Blood. _Blood_.

The copper taste in your tongue becomes evident and panic begins to tingle your senses as you vomit over and over, the putrid flavour of blood thick in your mouth. You're gasping between heaves, trying to pull in air, your heart fluttering against your chest.

"Sam, Sammy, relax," Dean squeezes your arm as he whispers into your ear, his voice too calm for the situation. You want to tell him that there is something very wrong, very wrong, but you can't talk, and you don't think he's noticed…

When the puking finally stops, Dean gently tugs back at you and helps you lean against the seat, his hand cupping your neck gently, as he runs a damp cloth over your face, and then your mouth. He pats your cheek twice, gently. "Feeling better?"

You want to tell him you're probably dying. There was so much blood. Too much blood.

"Hey," says Dean. "You wanna lie down in the back?"

No, you don't want to do that. Another shiver of panic passes through you, and you know that if you die, you want Dean by your side. You don't want him to look back and suddenly find you pulseless, on the backseat. So you shake your head, ever so slightly.

"Okay," Dean says. "Here. Take this."

You lean against the soft pillow again, and realise, belatedly, that it's a jacket. Dean's hands are trembling as he pushes your hair back and lays the back of his palm against your forehead again. And then, after a hum, he pulls the Impala off the blood-spattered shoulder.

**0**

**Then**

The next few days passed without incident. There were no cases, and Sam was glad there was some more time for Dean to recuperate, but Sam was also getting restless due to the lack of a job. Although it was probably best he didn't complain. Heaven and Hell were quiet after a long time.

He and Dean had their share of fun, though. They had a Game of Thrones marathon, and when they had finished that, they blitzed Doctor Who. Dean was amused by all the time-travelling, and Sam was fascinated, to say the least. For the next couple of days Dean drove Sam insane, firing Doctor Who dialogues at him in a terrible accent that only Dean could think was British in any way.

After a week of down-time in the bunker, they hit a bar together for a game of pool and then drinks. Sam won the game and Dean treated him to a shot of whiskey.

"Drink, bitch!" he said, pushing the glass towards Sam.

Sam smiled, before knocking it back in one go and shutting his eyes for a moment. The bitter taste brought back recent memories; good and bad, and for a moment Sam found it hard to believe that his brother was back from the dead, no longer a demon, and was sitting right there in front of him.

Dean obviously wasn't a mind reader, though, and Sam heard him chuckle. "Someone's learned how to hold their liquor."

Sam screwed up his eyes. "I've had practice."

"Oh, shut up, Sammy, you're still a lightweight."

"Am not!" Sam protested.

"Mm hmm," Dean replied. "Remember Connecticut? The hotel with the creepy dolls?"

Sam glared at him. "That was _years_ ago, Dean. I was fucking twenty-three."

"And a lightweight." Dean paused. "So. Now that you can finally drink, do you want another one?"

Sam nodded, and then smiled widely. _His brother was back. _Suddenly, it was all just sinking in all over again, and Sam's heart was warm and happy. He smiled wider, if possible, making Dean narrow his eyes at him.

"What's the matter?"

Sam chuckled. "Nothing, I—" he shook his head at Dean, still smiling, "I just…"

Dean's other eyebrow went up. "Mm hmm."

Sam shook his head again. "Nothing, man."

Dean signalled to the bartender for two more chasers. Sam lifted his beer to his lips and took a swig, wiping the froth off when he'd set it down. When Dean pushed the whiskey towards him, though, Sam protested. "No, man, I don't want any more."

"Drink," Dean told him. "It's been a while since we've been drunk." He paused. "Well, since _I've_ been drunk, anyway. I remember you getting shitfaced the day you cured me."

"I was relieved," Sam explained. "And can you even get drunk anymore?"

Dean gave him a wide grin. "Watch me."

**~o~**

"Y'know," Dean slurred, "I din'… I din' even… uh…"

Sam looked over at him, trying to ignore the mild buzzing in his ears. Oh, he was drunk. He was _so_ drunk. He grinned dopily at his brother. "Din' what?"

"I don'—" Dean stopped mid-sentence, to snigger. "Man, we're d'unk. We're soooo d'unk."

"Cop-copy…cat." (Because Dean had so copied what Sam had just thought in his head. How rude.)

"Nope." Dean corrected him. "D'unk, S'mmy, d'unk." He started to chuckle again.

"Drink?" Sam asked him, sniggering right along.

"N-no, man, consenate!"

"I think y'm-mean con-consec… secrate."

Dean considered it as they staggered on, hands in their pockets. They'd not brought the Impala to the bar on purpose, and Sam was belatedly thankful for it.

"'S wrong, S'mmy," Dean said, once he'd processed Sam's information. "'S not co-con..ser…rate."

Sam huffed at him. "You're… you're _hic_ d-drink, duuuude."

"S'dunk, b-bitch. N' I miss… m-misss m'baby," Dean slurred in reply, swaying dangerously. Sam reached out to his brother's elbow, grabbing it just in time as Dean tried to face plant. Despite Sam's efforts, though, Dean continued in his fall and he grasped at Sam's jacket sleeve, making him trip and fall over as well. Sam let out a yelp as he landed on his ass, right beside Dean.

Before they knew it, they were on the quiet road, feet tangled and backsides sore. Sam cast a glance at Dean, who doubled then became one again. Sam laughed at this. "There'r… th— ah, there'r… two'f ya, D'n. I c-can… ssseee t-two D'ns." He felt triumphant at pointing this out, before breaking into a fit of (extremely macho) giggles.

Dean smiled at him, watching him laugh, and took a moment before he joined in with Sam. And they laughed together — they laughed for a long time, visions blurry with tears of mirth, turning their faces to the spinning stars above and holding their stomachs. At that point, it was as if none of the problems in their lives had ever existed.

**~o~**

_"__Please."_

_The boy was on the floor, on his back, trembling, as tears streamed out of his eyes. "It hurts," he said, voice breaking, as he hugged himself._

_The figure from the shadows laughed lightly, but didn't intervene._

_"__Please. It hurts."_

_The man laughed again, and the boy yelled once, body clenching up, as he became silent. And then he arched upwards, against the floor, eyes rolling up to reveal white._

Sam opened his eyes, terror running through him as he pushed back his blankets and sat up. That was a very bad move, he realised, as his head began to spin and his stomach turned. His hands felt gritty, as though they were dirty, and he still had his jacket and shoes on. He thought of the beers and whiskeys from last night, and winced. Shit, he couldn't remember anything of what had happened, once he and Dean had got out of the bar. How had he even reached the bunker and gotten back to his bed? Was Dean okay?

Clamping a hand to his pounding forehead, he slowly got off the bed and made his way to the medicine cabinet to get the aspirin. His stomach lurched once more and he held onto the sink, resting his head against the mirror and taking deep breaths through his mouth to push the nausea down. His head was throbbing like crazy and he really wanted to get back to bed. But he hung on there — waited for his body to catch up.

The deep breaths helped quell the nausea, and he spat into the sink once before rinsing his mouth, and reaching for the aspirin. Once he had taken it, he staggered back to his bed and slept again, this time the sleep being mercifully dreamless.

**~o~**

Sam and Dean never woke up for breakfast. They almost didn't make it for lunch either. Sam was still sleeping, when a pillow lightly hit his face. He groaned, and heard a tired voice speak to him. "Wake up. We gotta get food."

He opened an eye, and squinted up at a very worn-out, dishevelled Dean, who was standing beside his bed. Sam's head throbbed.

"Ow," he moaned.

"Shut up, Princess," Dean said sleepily. "Get your ass out of bed. Seriously."

Sam turned away, and pressed his cheek against the pillow. "And since when have you been Mr Sunshine?"

"Since I think we've got a case," Dean replied. Another pillow hit Sam. "Get up."

Sam looked at him again. "Wait. There's a case?"

"There might be one." Dean rubbed his forehead. "Garth just called me."

Sam sighed, and pressed two fingers against his temple. "Ugh. Okay. I'm coming. Let's get some food in us while we look into this."

Dean hummed in reply and walked out of the room slowly as Sam peeled the sheets off himself and stretched, his head pounding in sync with his heartbeat. It had been a long time since he'd been drunk with Dean, and he smiled to himself as he realised that they were both desperate enough to get back out there and work a case in spite of their hangovers.

Well, some things never changed.

He showered and grabbed more aspirin before leaving for the kitchen, where Dean was putting bread in the toaster. He pointed at the pot of soup, once he realised that Sam had arrived. "Stir it."

Sam placed his laptop at the dining table and obeyed, and within minutes, they were both eating soup and toast at the table, while Dean entered Garth's information into Google. "Got it," he muttered, before spooning some soup into his mouth, and turning the laptop to face Sam.

It was another child who was missing, but when Sam saw the photo of the boy, he felt the colour drain from his face.

"Remember that kid who went missing a few days ago?" Dean was saying, oblivious to Sam's shock. "He was actually found dead a couple of days later, outside an old, abandoned warehouse at Fremont, Nebraska. A few homeless guys found him. Police didn't even look there, since the kid had gone missing in Idaho. And," Dean paused, "now this."

Sam swallowed. This was the same boy he'd dreamt about last night, and he'd seen the other kid die too.

"This kid was found today. Same warehouse, and he went missing from Texas," said Dean.

Sam squinted at the text on the article. "Asphyxiation." He met eyes with Dean. "He died from the lack of oxygen, but they can't find any strangulation marks or anything to prove it was foul play."

"Yeah, they couldn't find anything in the other kid either," Dean said. "It looks like a gig for us."

Sam shut the lid of the laptop, and pushed his soup away. "It is, Dean, and we've gotta leave now."

Dean frowned at him. "Yeah, I'm glad you're excited. Eat your soup first."

"No," Sam told him. "We have to leave!"

"Yes, Sam, we—"

"No, you don't understand! I saw them die!"

"_Sam_?" Dean grew white, as his eyes widened.

"I'm having visions again," Sam blurted. He watched as Dean's spoon fell out of his hand and clattered to the floor.

**~o~**

"So – so what is this? Some new demonic shit? Some aftereffect of – of—?" Dean waved his hand in thin air, trying to find an explanation for their current situation. Sam, however, knew that Dean had nothing. Hell, Sam had got nothing either.

"Dean, I don't know," he replied belatedly, letting his shoulders slump.

Dean only stepped on the gas pedal harder and the Impala roared.

Sam adjusted his sunglasses and leaned against the seat. The sunlight was jarring, doing nothing to help his headache, and he wondered how Dean was able to drive at all, with all the glare coming off the blacktop. Both of them had left the bunker before they could do much more for their hangovers. The bottle of aspirin sat on the seat between them, pills rattling with every turn, bump and pothole.

There was silence for a while. Dean hadn't switched on any music, which proved just how bad his own hangover was, and Sam was glad to know that his brother could still get drunk and feel like shit the next day. There were too many things to worry about, without Dean's liver being in the mix.

"So uh," Dean began, and Sam turned to him, but his brother was staring straight ahead at the asphalt stretching before them. "Do you think this has anything to do with…?"

"With?" Sam asked him, bewildered.

"Y'know, the cure?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Me curing you? That doesn't make sense, Dean. I almost cured Crowley too."

"But you didn't do it… not fully," Dean replied. "And my curing was different, wasn't it?"

"It was," Sam sighed, cringing at how he'd thought he was going to lose Dean that night.

_Dean, Dean, come back to me._

"But Dean," he said, "it was different for you. I didn't even use my own blood for it."

"But it was _different_. And that's the point here."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam shrugged.

"So what if – what if that's what's causing this?" Dean asked, fear and guilt evident in his voice.

"It can't be," Sam muttered. "I'm pretty sure this is something else."

"And how do you know that?"

"The visions felt… different," Sam replied. "They were nightmares. And my head didn't even hurt all that much. Like… I could still function."

"Says the guy who woke up hungover."

"No, Dean," Sam said, "this was honestly different. Like… like…" he swallowed, his heart sinking at the memory. He didn't want to go there. It was ten years, but God, he _so_ didn't want to reach back to that part of his life. He had come all this way… all this way, and he'd stay put. He had survived.

Dean cottoned on, though. He sighed. "So these were like the nightmares you had with Jess."

He wasn't even asking a question.

Sam felt something else click into place between them.

There was more silence. They had lost so many people, died so many times themselves, but nothing could erase the fact that who they were, and where they were now, was because of two women whose deaths they'd never stop grieving, even if a hundred years went by and they forgot everything else. For Dean, it was their mother. For Sam, it was Jess. No matter what happened, no matter where they went and what they did, everything boiled down to this.

"Sammy," Dean whispered.

Sam didn't look at him. He took a deep breath, remembering that they had a case at hand. Jess was gone. She'd been gone for such a long time. There was no use raking over it again. So he swallowed, and addressed it head on "Dean, when I dreamed about Jess, my powers were just starting to manifest."

Dean hesitated. "So you think it's starting again? The whole cycle, ten years later?"

"I doubt it," Sam replied. "I'm pretty sure that – that…" he pressed his lips together. Talking about this to Dean openly was still a problem. He hated thinking about it; mentioning it, because it brought a rush of guilt in him and bitterness in Dean. The things they'd said to each other — the things they'd done… Sam would never stop feeling horrible about that either.

Jess might have been why everything started. But Dean was why everything kept going. Why Sam kept going.

_The two of us against the world_.

"Sure about _what_?" Dean said suddenly, breaking through Sam's reverie.

Sam turned to his brother. "Uh, that… you know, demon blood…" he licked his lip.

Dean nodded, seemingly unperturbed, although a dark look still flashed through his eyes. "You reckon your powers are still there. Just dormant."

"Yeah. And I didn't get any visions after we killed Yellow Eyes either," Sam supplied.

"So unless someone's resurrected _that_ dickbag," Dean began, and Sam knew where he was heading, when Dean turned to him. "I think these are special children who are dying, Sam."

And Sam had expected it. He had been thinking about it himself. It made sense too. The children had all looked like they were around ten years old, and Azazel had still been infecting six-month-olds in the year that they found out about him. Was it possible…?

"It's possible," Dean shrugged, as though he were reading Sam's mind. "I mean, we stopped him from infecting that baby ourselves — the day Meg took Dad."

And Dad had died two days later.

Sam tried not to think about it.

"So, the question is," Dean continued, oblivious to Sam's thought process, "why are these special kids dying?"

Sam shrugged, since he didn't have an answer for it. This was going back too far. And these were kids. Children.

Beside him, Dean just let out a low, disgusted grunt, before speeding the Impala. "People can be psychopaths, man."

Sam couldn't agree more.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Hello, all!

Thanks for the response! Hope you'll enjoy the update. :)

* * *

><p><strong>Three<strong>

_Hold on; for it spins too strong_

_'Cause little flames do my soul burn_

_Catch hands, or fall I into the wrong _

_I will not into a monster turn_

**Now**

"D-Dean!"

The agony hits you all at once, but you aren't exactly pleased that you can finally talk, because it isn't making the pain any lesser. Your eyes open as your muscles stiffen and throb against your skin.

It's dark all around, and the lights turn on as Dean suddenly appears before you from… _somewhere_.

"Sammy?"

"Dean, I—" you grit your teeth as excruciating pain hits you all over, making you bite your lips against a building scream.

And then, suddenly, Dean looks at something and starts, and your gaze follows his, only to see—

"Hey, Sammy."

It's Lucifer.

He is leaning casually against the bathroom door, his grin extending to his ears as he crosses his arms loosely against his chest. "Long time, no see," he murmurs.

You try to sit up, but realise you are handcuffed to the bed. You turn to Dean, and his alarmed expression turns into one of malice, as he grins at you, the smile eerily similar to Lucifer's. "Time for some payback, Sammy."

"N-No… Dean…"

He ignores you, and nods at Lucifer, who comes forward and raises a palm, only to flick his wrist once.

White-hot flames rise all around you, and Lucifer flicks his wrist again, so that they gather around you. Before you know it, they're on you, and you're burning… burning… and the agony is so extreme you can't… you can't…

And Lucifer and Dean laugh in unison, both their eyes sparking yellow and you burn, you burn, until…

_"__Sammy, Sammy, hey, no, that's not real. Sammy?!"_

You're gasping, the smoke and stink of your own scalding flesh overtaking your senses, and you scream again, trying to crawl away, but nothing helps.

_"__Sam!"_

A hand is slapping against your cheek.

_"__Oh fuck. Oh, fuckfuckfuckity—"_

That's when you open your eyes. For real.

The room is dimly lit and everything around you is spinning, as though they're all on a merry-go-round. The bathroom door is open, flooding yellow light across the room and the next moment, Dean rushes out, dripping wet, and with a towel wound around his waist, holding a washcloth in his hand. He skids to a halt and falls to his knees, beside you, before pressing the damp fabric to your forehead. He grabs your wrist. "Sammy?"

Tears fall out of your eyes, as you realise it had all been a nightmare. Or a hallucination. There's no Lucifer. Dean doesn't want you dead.

"Calm down," Dean whispers. You blink at him, and notice the pallor of his face. He takes the washcloth away and presses it against your cheek, and your neck.

"Dean—" Your voice is shaky, watery.

"Shh," he soothes, using the towel to brush away the tears trailing down your temple.

"'M sorry."

"You don't have to be," he says, and there's something in his eyes — honesty, perhaps, as he says it.

"I t-tried…"

"Of course you did," he says. He pulls away the cloth, and you notice his hands are shaking.

"D'nner?" you ask him.

"You hungry?" he sounds surprised.

"N-No… you?" Your voice is too faint, and you hate it for being this way.

He smiles. "Haven't had much of an appetite. I can say we're kinda rocking the same boat in some ways." The smile turns into a chuckle, as he looks away to adjust the towel around his waist.

You don't find this funny, though. You lick your lips. "You… r-rest?"

"I will," he promises.

You nod weakly, and when he makes you get up, you reach for his wrist. "D'n?"

He turns to you, his eyes questioning, as you squeeze his wrist. "Y-You don't… haave t'be s-sorry e-either."

**0**

**Then**

"Andrew was a good boy."

The tea burned Dean's tongue as he sipped at it, and he almost sputtered. He controlled himself, though, and put the cup and saucer down, as he turned to the distraught woman who was sitting before him and Sam.

Andrew Roberts was the first victim who'd gone missing, only to be found dead later on. He was also the first one that Sam had had a vision about. And Dean shuddered to think of it as a vision. No. He hoped it wasn't that. They had enough problems to deal with, without old ones coming back to haunt them.

"Mrs Roberts, we're really sorry for your loss," Sam said softly. He was always the empathetic one, and Dean turned to his brother, who bent forward, hands interlocked. "Can you tell us more about your son?"

She reached for a tissue and blotted her face briefly. "What do you want to know?"

"Was there anything strange about his behaviour?" Sam prodded lightly. "Did he seem scared?"

She sniffed. "No. He was just fine." A tear fell out of her eye, trailing down her cheek, and she wiped at it. "He was fine." She let out a sob. "Such a sweet, understanding boy. He was just ten, but he'd always seemed… older. He was responsible and good. He was—" she sniffed, "he was my baby, and…" her face crumpled, tears streaming down her cheek, and Sam turned guiltily to Dean.

It looked like it was their cue to leave. There was no use for questioning the mother further, since none of Azazel's special children had shown any signs of having their powers so early on, and clearly, Andrew was no exception.

Dean cleared his throat. "Again, we're sorry for your loss, ma'am," he said sincerely.

The woman nodded. "Thank you, Agent."

"We will get back to you when we make progress," Sam said, as he and Dean stood up. He reached for his suit pocket and pulled out a business card. "Please get back to us, in case you remember something — or think of anything that might be relevant to the case."

"I will," said Mrs Roberts, accepting the card.

"We'll take our leave, then," said Sam, heading to the door, as Dean followed him. Mr Roberts saw them off and they walked to the Impala once she'd shut the door behind her.

When they were in the car, Dean clutched the steering wheel. "Dude, we have no way of knowing if he really was a special child."

"No," said Sam, "but that's our best guess."

"Yeah, but you heard the mom. Nothing seemed to be wrong. His mom's even alive."

"Obviously, _something_ was wrong, Dean," said Sam, "or he wouldn't have been kidnapped, and I wouldn't have been able to watch him die."

"His room was clean too," Dean sighed. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"What do you expect in the room of a ten-year-old, then?" Sam snorted. "Porn?"

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. "Nice, Sam, but I was talking about anything … weird."

Sam chuckled without humour. "Anyway. We should probably grab some lunch before scooting over to our next vic's place."

"Yeah, we should," Dean agreed. "You hungry yet, though?"

"Kinda. You aren't?"

"Not really."

Sam squinted at Dean, and Dean knew he was being scrutinised. He sighed. "Not growing a third head, dude. I'm just not very hungry. It's probably the cup of diabetes back at the house that's causing this."

"The tea wasn't that sweet," Sam said suspiciously.

"Yeah, you'd know," Dean muttered under his breath.

"Dean," Sam shifted in his seat. "Are you not telling me something?"

Dean stared ahead at the road, nails digging into the steering wheel's leather. The skin on his right arm stung, and he ignored it. He wished Sam wouldn't bring this up again and again and — keep reminding him; especially when he knew that the Mark made him a ticking time bomb, and it was his own fucking fault. And it had been embarrassing. So embarrassing — the aftermath of it all. The way he'd treated several women, hit and injured people for no reason… _killed_…

The Mark seared, reminding Dean of its presence and purpose again. He had done so many things, but the worst, _worst_ had been the way he had treated Sam. And he hadn't even apologised for it. How was he supposed to do that? Would Sam even believe him? After so many years of the utter crap that they'd given each other, would Sam want to listen to him?

They always put things behind them and moved on, sure. Their fights hardly ended with them giving each other flowers — because no, they didn't do that. Instead, they had a beer in silence and nodded and cleared their throats to acknowledge that okay, it was over, and that they had — kind of — forgiven each other. But truly, completely pushing past it? No, they'd never done that. The wounds they had inflicted upon each other were too deep.

Until those silly girls had done that _stupid_ musical thing a few weeks ago — and there it was; their lives put together in a few cheesy songs and a prop and… _God_. Dean glanced at Sam again, who was gazing out at the scenery. No, he knew Sam wouldn't forgive that easy. But damn it, Dean _would_ find a way to redeem himself in Sam's eyes.

He saw a diner coming up ahead and began to slow the car. Sam turned from the window and frowned at Dean, but Dean just veered the car towards some parking, while grinning at the _Samulet_ that hung from their rear-view mirror.

"Let's get something to eat, Sammy."

**~o~**

It was official. Dean had a third head that only Sam could see. Either that, or he had suddenly sprouted a pair of horns. Because Sam wouldn't stop staring at him as though something was very wrong.

Dean ordered his burger and onion rings and tilted at his head at a very bewildered Sam. "What's up with you?"

Sam's nostrils flared. "You're not telling me something."

"Uh…" Dean arched an eyebrow. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He reached out for the napkin holder but Sam caught his arm by the wrist. Before he knew it, Sam was pushing back his sleeve.

The Mark made itself known, and Dean snorted weakly. "You know, Sammy, I'm flattered, but I'm not a cheap date—"

"Shut up," Sam said, and pushed Dean's sleeve up some more to reveal the Mark. Dean trailed his eyes to it, to realise, with a puff of relief, that it didn't look any different than it should. Sam blinked at it; once, twice, before rolling the sleeve back down and settling back in his seat.

"It looks redder," he said.

"It's always like that," Dean replied to him, taking a sip of his beer.

"No, it isn't."

"It's on _my_ arm, Sam," Dean said impatiently. "I think I should be allowed to judge how normal or abnormal it looks!"

Sam recoiled instantly, eyes in all their puppy-dog glory, and dammit, now _Dean_ felt guilty. His brother turned his face to the floor. "Yeah. You're right. I'm sorry."

"Sammy…"

Sam swallowed and reached for his own beer. "I trust you to let me help when you think you need me to, Dean," he said quietly. "I am sorry."

Dean felt like hitting himself now, but he didn't do it. Way to make Sam feel like ass for no fault of his own. But opening his mouth right now seemed to be making it worse, so Dean decided that silence was best.

Their food arrived and they ate quietly, each morsel tasting like cardboard in Dean's mouth. He shuddered, remembering the last time it had been like this. He had died a few days later and woken up as a demon. And he'd known… known somewhere inside him that he was heading there — that there was no coming back, but he had ignored it. Then after Sam had cured him, it seemed like the dark cloud over his head had cleared a little, and he'd felt better.

He still felt better. A lot better than the time he'd killed Abaddon… and _Christ_. That was terrible… _so_ terrible.

Dean cleared his throat as he put down his half-eaten burger. "Sam?"

Sam forked some lettuce into his mouth and looked up, eyes wary. Dean sighed, and pushed his plate away. "I don't feel like eating any more of that."

His brother looked shocked at this revelation as he swallowed down the salad he was chomping on. "Dean — was this?"

"This happened last time before… before—" he bit his lip.

"Before you died," Sam supplied. "I noticed."

"So—" _Do you think it's coming back? I might need help, Sammy. I don't want to ask, but I know you understand. I know you want to. And you gotta pull me out of this — you gotta — you and Cas; and I know you will, but I need you to see. I need you to help._

Dean barely kept quiet over that storm raging inside him.

"Let's leave this case be, Dean," Sam said, eyes wide and understanding. "There are plenty of hunters out there. I say, we get you back to the bunker and we research the Mark and how to get rid of it. I mean," he paused, "I don't even see why this is not our priority right now."

"Sammy, we don't—"

"Dammit, Dean, this is important," Sam said desperately. "Don't you get it? If you die again, or if – if you become a demon again, I – I—" he clenched his jaw and stopped there abruptly before letting out a breath through his mouth. "That's – that's just a lot of pain for everyone," he said finally.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, it is." He hesitated. "We'll do it your way this time," he said softly. "Okay?"

Sam looked up at him, hope shining in his eyes, as he gave a small smile. "However you want it, Dean."

And Dean knew at that point that another block had just been laid in the new wall of trust. He couldn't quite figure out, though, why the burger seemed a little more appetising after that.

**~o~**

_"__Don't do this to me… don't, please…"_

_The pipe leaked, and shadows moved. The child was a girl this time, in a dirty dress and messed-up pigtails, her mouth covered in blood. The hooded man knelt before her and lowered the goblet to her small face._

_"__This is for you, sweetie."_

_She moved ahead, wanting to drink, and her lips had touched the rim, only to have the goblet pulled away from them, as the man broke into half laughter._

_"__Plea—" the girl choked mid-sentence, and slumped to the floor, as her body began to convulse._

"NO!"

Sam woke up in his bed, rivers of sweat making paths down to his face, only to hear Dean sit up in his own bed, beside Sam's, and look apprehensively into Sam's eyes.

**~o~**

"I saw her — she had a seizure. She died, Dean. I _know_ she died."

The Impala sped through the quiet roads as Sam cradled his head in his hands and leaned against his window, swallowing against the ungodly fear that had settled in his throat. Once both Sam and Dean had been awake and alert enough to discuss Sam's nightmare, they hadn't said another word to each other. They'd just packed their duffels and settled in the car, before taking off to Fremont.

Of course, there was still the thing that they'd discussed before — no cases; only Dean's Mark, but this was getting too weird to ignore. Plus the last time they'd encountered cases with special children like this, there had been hunters after them; hunters like Gordon, and both Sam and Dean knew, without a doubt, that there would be such hunters here too, who were so blinded by black and white, that they'd never want to see the grey bits.

And this case involved _children_. Not people in their early twenties like the last time.

Kids. _Innocent_ kids.

Sam glanced at Dean from behind his hands. He never wanted Dean on this hunt, and yet Dean was here. Sam really, really wanted to protect his big brother for once. How much had Dean done for him? Protected him? Would Sam ever be able to return the favour? And now — now, when Dean genuinely needed someone to look out for him, Sam had dragged him along on this hunt.

He was being selfish. Now he knew what Dean had meant when he called him selfish.

He swallowed. "Dean."

Dean veered the car towards the exit, and spared a glance at Sam. "Yeah."

"Stop the car."

The car rumbled forward a few more metres before Dean pulled over at the shoulder. Sam straightened himself and clutched the door handle. His brother was looking at him curiously, but Sam braced himself for what he wanted to say. "Dean, I think you should get back to the bunker. I'll handle this."

Dean's eyebrow went up. "What?"

"It's just…" Sam shifted, so he was facing Dean directly. "You aren't feeling so good — you said it yourself—"

"I'm hardly an invalid, dude," said Dean, interrupting him.

"Yeah, but I think you should—"

"Shut up." Dean restarted the car, pulling off the shoulder. "Is that why you asked me to stop?"

"Yeah—"

Dean huffed. "You're so full of crap. Come on. We're going to Fremont."

"Dean—"

"Keep quiet, bitch."

**~o~**

They were both tired when they came to a decent-looking motel, but Sam really wanted to go on. Dean pointed out that unless they stopped right now, they were just begging for an accident, with him falling asleep at the wheel. Sam finally agreed to a motel rest stop, through a haze of guilt.

The lights were off, and Sam twisted about in his covers, listening to Dean's deep snores from the bed next to him. He was just psyching himself up to sleep, hoping that there wouldn't be any nightmares tonight, when Dean's phone lit up on the bedside cabinet, and started to vibrate.

Dean mumbled at the low, buzzing sound while Sam snatched the device and squinted at the unknown number on it. In the next moment he was out of bed and standing in the chilly air outside, with the door shut behind him, so Dean was out of hearing range. Dean had had enough, and Sam was going to deal with this from now on.

He pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

_"__You told me that I need to recognise the real monsters on this planet."_

The voice was familiar, and it belonged to a woman. Sam pulled the phone off his ear to check the number again, but he didn't recognise it. Maybe this was someone from Dean's demon days?

"Who is this?" Sam asked lamely.

_"__Tracy,"_ she replied. _"Tracy Bell. I was hoping you wouldn't forget, you know."_

_Oh_.

No. No, how could Sam ever forget that? Tracy, whose family had been killed by a demon — Tracy, who hated Sam for it. And had just proven how much repercussions his actions had had, even though it had been years, _years_, and…

He sighed. "This is Sam, Tracy."

_"__Oh,"_ she replied awkwardly, and paused. _"Hey."_

"Hey."

_"__I uh… Dean… is he…?"_

"He's asleep," Sam told her. "I'll tell him you called."

_"__Sure, uh…"_ she hesitated. _"I just — you're following a case now, aren't you? Working a job?"_

"Maybe?" Sam wasn't sure if he should tell her the truth.

_"__If you are,"_ Tracy said, _"Can I – can I ask you not to go on this hunt?"_

"Why?"

_"__I just…"_ she let out a breath, and it sounded like crackles on the phone. Sam waited for her to continue.

_"__I just,"_ she repeated, _"it's… dangerous. For you two. I don't think you guys should get involved in this one."_

"Kids are dying, Tracy," Sam reasoned with her, bewildered at this piece of information. Of course, it wasn't so surprising that it was dangerous for him — since he actually fit the stereotype of the victims, but why was _Tracy_ of all people bothering to come up with a warning? They'd never actually spoken to her after the Abaddon hunt last year, and Sam had never thought she'd really care.

_"__I know they're dying,"_ she replied. _"Believe me, I know. But — you guys — it's really dangerous for you."_

"We'll risk it."

_"__It will be best if you don't,"_ said Tracy. _"Trust me."_

Sam swallowed, and waited for a moment. "Okay," he lied. "We won't poke into this."

She sighed. _"Thanks. See ya."_ And before Sam could reply, the line went dead.

Sam stood there for a while longer, holding the phone in his hand and thinking about what Tracy had said. She didn't want him and Dean to work this case. And it wasn't some idiotic hunter competition. It was… she was _concerned_.

Which meant the case was really dangerous. Dangerous enough for Sam to want to keep Dean out of it.

Sam nodded to himself, and took a quick decision as he slid the phone into the pocket. This would be hard, but it was doable. And there was no way Dean was going to be in any kind of danger this time.

It took only a few minutes for him to get ready, and to make sure Dean wouldn't be able to follow him.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered softly, before letting himself out of the motel room.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Reviews will be super-awesome. :D


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:**

Update! Thanks for all the response. Hope you're enjoying so far. :)

Also, my dear friend, and awesome writer, **SPNxBookworm**, will begin posting a lovely new story starting tomorrow - _'As I Saw Him Break Me'_, and I strongly recommend reading it, and giving her love, because she, and all her stories are awesome. :D

* * *

><p><strong>TO SUFFER AND BE STRONG<strong>

**Four**

**Then**

Dean woke up to sunrays hitting his face. As poetic as this shit sounded, he hated waking up like this because it was annoying to have light and heat on your face, first thing in the morning. But, he was used to it. Hell, everyone on the planet must be used to it, he reckoned, as thought and logic began to flood in — signalling that his body was waking up.

He yawned, and tried to sit up. "S'mmy?"

There was no reply. Dean moved to pull his blankets a little tighter. Maybe Sam had gone out to get breakfast. Good. This meant Dean could sleep a bit more.

However, there seemed to be a problem. Dean couldn't move his arm, and there was something enclosing his wrist. Something that felt horribly like…

Dean opened his eyes abruptly, so see a gleaming handcuff, securing him to the headboard. And Sam, the bastard, hadn't locked Dean to something like the bedside cabinet, no. It had to be the fucking bed. So that Dean wouldn't escape under any circumstances.

Dean scowled. "You kinky bastard," he muttered to himself. "I'll catch up with you, bitch."

**~o~**

The sun gleamed a clear golden as its rays penetrated the cotton wisps of clouds, scattering about and spreading gold in their wake. The day was clear, beautiful, and Sam pulled down the windows while steering the Impala through the highway. He knew that Dean would never forgive him for stealing the car, and that Dean would most definitely get out of those handcuffs eventually, but he had to do what he could. The Impala had been a faster, easier option than hotwiring some other car. As for the handcuffs, at least Sam now had a head-start over his brother.

He wished he didn't have to do this. He and Dean were just regaining trust, and Sam had just done something to make Dean think that he didn't trust him. That wasn't the point, though. The thing was, Sam was worried. He knew that Dean would understand later on, but for now, he wouldn't be pleased at this at all. He had confessed to Sam — actually told him the truth about the Mark, and Sam had taken the information and demonstrated what Dean would clearly interpret as mistrust.

Unfortunately, the fact that Dean was cured didn't reverse what they had done, or how they felt. It didn't erase the fact that Dean, somewhere in the deepest pit of his heart, thought that Sam was actually responsible for their mother's death. It didn't stop Sam from feeling guilty about it all. Sam had brought this on. He was responsible. He was a bad person.

**~o~**

The bed was heavy as fuck, and the deposit on the motel room was being put into good use, because Dean thought he heard a cracking sound when he pulled the heavy-as-fuck bed along, towards his duffel.

His wrist was bleeding, a stream of sticky red trailing down the gap between his index and middle fingers, and leaving a trail of droplets as he heaved himself across the room. But he kept going. Sam was going to be sorry. Oh, he was going to be _so_ sorry. Dean wasn't going to show him any mercy.

He stopped his thoughts right there, remembering what he had said to his brother all those weeks ago, while driving back to the bunker in the Impala.

_And what I'm gonna do to you, Sammy? Well, that ain't gonna be mercy either._

He had said that, and he had said it with the intention of hurting Sam. He had meant those words — even swung a hammer at his brother, and yet Sam had stayed.

Sammy was fucking stupid, but Dean was really glad that his brother had been there.

He let out a triumphant chuckle when he finally reached his duffle, and with his free hand he started to look for a paper clip in one of the smaller zips. He wasn't leaving Sam out there. He was not going to let Sam die, no matter how screwed-up they both were.

**~o~**

Sam didn't stop for food on the way to Fremont. He wasn't hungry, and he wanted to get this over with, because Dean was capable of catching up at any point.

The children had been found outside a warehouse — both of them; and since the murders had continued to happen, Sam could guess that the warehouse wasn't where they were murdered. He still needed to scope the place, though, and confirm this for himself. Then he'd try and find out if anyone had seen the children at any other point, although he doubted it.

Seriously, though, who were these people, killing children like that? Why were they doing this? Why now, when Azazel and Lucifer had been gone for years?

Sam steered his mind away from the thought as he continued to drive. His and Dean's least favourite hunts were the ones where dead children were involved. It always left them messed-up in the end, and Dean would leave to knock back some shots at a nearby bar, while Sam would try to find another case for them to start on.

Well, they did say that the smallest coffins are the heaviest, and Sam knew that it was true.

So he continued to drive, dreading the plunging emotions that were sure to result from this hunt, and also glad that Dean wouldn't be subjected to this right now. The Mark was enough for Dean to deal with. Until they got rid of that, things weren't going to be normal at all.

**~o~**

Dean trailed the wet washcloth over his bleeding wrist one last time, before throwing it aside and striding to gather his belongings. He couldn't delay much if he wanted to catch up with Sam, who'd had a head-start at fuck o'clock, apparently, according to the boy at the motel receptionist.

The sly bastard.

Why didn't Sam want to include Dean, though? Was it that he was just worried for Dean, or was he scared that the Mark would take over and cause more damage?

Dean wouldn't blame his brother if it was the latter. He wouldn't trust himself either, but it was different this time. He knew that nothing could push him over the edge — at least for now. That was all the reassurance he needed.

**~o~**

Fremont seemed like a peaceful-enough town, and Sam would have believed it was, if he hadn't known that there were children getting murdered around here. The Impala purred under his hands as the GPS on his phone informed him that he was close to the warehouse where the victims were found.

He followed the directions, not surprised to find that this part of the town was deserted. The warehouse itself was large and dilapidated, littered with waste paper and junk., There was a faded out sign that Sam couldn't read. He saw yellow police tape at the far end, so he knew at once where the bodies were found. He parked the car and made his way towards the tape.

Sam expected the smaller-than-normal chalk drawing to make his heart sink a little, and he somehow also expected the two grisly chalk drawings to be side-by-side. If anything else hadn't confirmed that this was their kind of gig, this most definitely did.

What Sam didn't expect was the sharp pain in his neck, accompanied by the sudden dizziness. Before he knew it, he was falling into the embrace of thick blackness.

**~o~**

When Dean reached Fremont, he wasn't sure where to check first. He had called his brother many times, but Sam hadn't picked up his phone. He hadn't responded to Dean's messages either, and Dean was starting to get worried as well as annoyed. As he drove the stolen car into one of the lanes, Dean swore to himself that whenever he found Sam, he'd kill him. Because Sam was okay. Sam was alive and kicking. There could be no two ways about that.

If someone had tried to hurt Sam, though…

The Mark seared on Dean's arm, and he clenched his fist. He drove the Impala to an empty parking lot, and turned off the ignition.

His stomach growled and he pushed it back, ignored it, because he needed to find Sam, and he had no time, because that was what the foreboding sensation in his gut told him. And he hated running out of time.

Yet he hadn't slept well and was tired, and he could feel Mark-driven thoughts dragging at him.

But, _no_, he wouldn't let them take over.

He wouldn't let _it_ take over.

Sighing, he leaned his head on the steering wheel. He took a couple of breaths, trying to calm himself. _Think rationally_, he told himself, _where would Sam go first?_

The answer came to him immediately. The warehouse. Of course. That was where Sam would check first, because that was where the bodies had been found.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He took a few more breaths, and sleep beckoned to him.

He was so tired… so tired…

He had to go on.

_So tired. Just a nap._

_No. Sammy could be in trouble._

Dean took another deep breath, unable to fight the sudden tiredness and somnolence that engulfed his body.

**~o~**

The lights around Sam were too bright — to the extent that he couldn't bear to open his eyes, for he could feel it seeping through his eyelids and causing a persistent burn. His mouth felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton and he groaned, lips smacking against each other, his tongue coming out to lick at them, and finding chapped skin.

"It will wear off."

Sam let another groan escape him as he forced his eyes open. They felt dry, and he saw shapes and figures around him. He started blinking rapidly to clear the haze, but nothing happened.

A figure moved before him, and someone crouched. Sam made out a face — a man, features distorted — probably because Sam couldn't see — and he flashed a row of white teeth, chuckling, as he held out something to Sam.

"Drink, you'll feel better."

The vessel came closer to Sam's face, rim pushing against his chapped lips, when his nostrils picked up the stench of the contents inside.

It was blood; and not just ordinary blood, for Sam could tell the difference from a mile away now.

It was demon blood.

**~o~**

"No." Sam's lips grated against the goblet as he muttered, trying to hold his own, despite the amount he'd been fed. He could feel the demon blood powering him up, the initial lightheadedness, accompanied by the rush of pure, raw energy; but this was useless — this was all useless, for his captors were human. Sam knew it, because yes, he had tried to use his powers on these people, and they hadn't worked.

"Drink," said the hooded man.

Sam had no idea how long he had been here, but he knew it was long enough, because all the side-effects from whatever was in that tranquiliser dart had worn off. He could now see clearly, although it didn't make much of a difference, because all his captors were hooded.

This was Sam's third goblet. He had tried to refuse the first two but had been forced. Forced to take it in, and gulp it down, and Sam didn't understand — couldn't understand why they were doing this. Although, he now understood how the children had died. It had been intense withdrawal from the blood.

But why were they doing this? What was their beef, after so many years?

"Drink, Sam," said the man, his voice raising a notch. Sam shook his head, and heard a sigh. "Not again."

Before he knew it, hands grabbed at his hair and pushed his head back, tipping the goblet forward, so that thick, salty blood entered his mouth. Sam sputtered, feeling his nerves fire up at the first hit of the drug, and some blood dribbled down his chin, spattering on the floor, until the goblet was pushed further into his mouth, cutting at the sides and causing a stinging pain.

Sam did not want this. He did not want the blood or anything else. He wanted to get out of here. He wanted to be out of this place and with his brother — doing whatever the heck they'd been doing these last few weeks.

He wanted to be home.

Sam wondered where Dean was, and hoped he was okay. Because he knew Dean would have escaped. He knew Dean would have followed him.

And as much as Sam didn't want Dean to be hurt, he craved only one person right now.

_Dean._

**~o~**

_Dean_

The voice was loud and clear, and Dean's eyes snapped open. "Sammy?"

He twisted about wildly, looking for Sam, because he could swear he had heard his brother. But where was he? Where was Sam?

A sharp pain sliced through Dean's temple and he hissed, putting his hand to it. And then he heard it again.

_Dean._

This time, Dean understood where it was coming from. But… how? How was Sam doing this? Was this a conscious thing or was Sam… was Sam in some kind of distress?

_Dean._

It didn't matter how and why Sam was able to reach him like this. Dean's brother needed him, and he was damn well going to make sure he reached Sam tonight.

"I'm coming, Sammy," he whispered into thin air, before turning on the ignition of the car.

**~o~**

"Drink."

"N-No!"

The goblet was pressed against Sam's lips again, and he tasted blood, filling it in his mouth…

"Very good, Sam."

Sam jerked his head up and spat the thick liquid at the hooded man.

"You son of a bitch!" the man cursed, sliding the back of his hand across his hidden face. "You'll pay."

"My brother is coming, you bastard," Sam breathed, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. "And he'll end you all."

The man chuckled in reply. "Ohhh, Sammy boy," he said, "you don't know how much we hope you're right."

"What?" Dread began to fill every inch of Sam's body, and he struggled against the manacles holding him down. "What do you mean?"

The man just chuckled in reply, before leaving Sam alone in the room, with only thick silence for company.

**~o~**

Dean slammed the door of the car shut as he strode towards the warehouse, noting the yellow police tapes at once. "Sammy?" he called out. "Sam!"

"Dean!"

The voice was familiar, and Dean would recognise it anywhere. His heart palpitating with relief, he began to turn around. "Sammy?"

"Dean."

All Dean knew then, before falling into the enticing darkness was a sharp sting in his neck, and a pair of hands holding a phone, which played out Sam's voice, repeating Dean's name over and over.

**0**

**Now**

When you wake up again, you don't quite expect Jess to make an appearance. She is sad, and tears are building in her eyes, as she walks towards you, wrapped in that white nightie, her twenty-one-year-old face displaying the love you know she felt for you.

Dean is nowhere to be seen, and you are not sure if this is real or not.

"Jess."

The tears escape the rims of her eyes and trail down her cheeks. "Why, Sam?"

You shake your head. "I'm sorry."

She sniffs. "I loved you. I trusted you. And I thought, after you'd had your revenge for me…" she breaks away. "You broke my heart."

"No," you explain. "Listen, Jess… they—"

"I thought you were stronger," she says. "I didn't expect you to give in like this. But—" she looks down, at the floor, "I guess I was wrong."

She flickers and disappears before you can even tell her — try and talk to her because, no, this isn't your fault. Dean promised this isn't your fault.

Your throat constricts, as your vision blurs with tears of your own. You curl up in your bed, the hopelessness taking over, as your body shakes, both from emotion, and the fact that you are a physical wreck. Everything aches, everything cramps, and staying in this position alone is agony.

But it's your punishment. Your punishment for hurting Jess.

There's a shuffling beside you, and a light switches on. "Sam?!"

Your chest heaves and you cough, and you hear Dean swear, before he lays a hand on your shoulder. "Hey, what happened?"

"J-Jess…" you can barely get the words out. Was Dean here all this time?

He sighs, and your mattress dips with his weight as he sits down, his hand not leaving your shoulder. "Hey, no, come on, calm down."

You feel the tears soak through your pillow, and shake your head. "J-Jess."

"She's not real," he says. "Whatever you're seeing — it's not real, okay? It's just you and me here."

"N-No…"

"Promise, Sammy," he says, and he pats your shoulder softly. "Go back to sleep. Come on." He keeps patting your shoulder, and then moves his hand towards your upper arm, continuing with the light tapping. This is how he used to put you to sleep when you were younger. You remember.

"Sleep," he repeats, and you listen to him this time.

_Little flames do my soul burn_

_And for each black dawn, is the dusk dark_

_I will not into a monster turn_

_Not let the night hit; not on its mark_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Reviews are great! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Hello, all! Thanks for the support!

Here's the next chapter! :)

* * *

><p><strong>TO SUFFER AND BE STRONG <strong>

**Five**

**Then**

_Drip, drip, drip._

When Dean came to, he couldn't quite figure out what the sound was about. All he knew was that it annoyed him, ringing against his ears, and he wanted it to stop.

"Dean."

_Drip, drip._

Dean couldn't move. His wrists stung, his hands coated in something dry and sticky, and he was cold. His mouth felt like someone had suctioned all the saliva out, and he desperately licked at his lips, trying to get them some moisture. All he got, though, was the taste of blood on his tongue.

"Dean?"

He knew this voice. He could recognise it deaf, but he knew better than to pay heed to it. Because… because… the last thing he could remember was hearing Sam, and then a sharp pain in his neck. So there was no way that this was Sam. It had been a trick. It was a trick…

"Open your eyes, man."

Something wet plonked onto Dean's hair and slid down his neck. His eyelids fluttered, trying to open, but Dean didn't want them to. He wanted to curl up and fall asleep, because that sounded so much better than the million other options right now, about what was waiting for him out there…

"Hey, Dean."

Sam sounded… weird. Shaky. Tired. Panic rose inside Dean's chest. What was wrong with Sam? What condition was he in, if this was what a recording of his voice sounded like? What were these bastards doing to him?

Sam was such an idiot. Why did he have to go and try to butt into a case where the victims were all people like him? Sam could be so, so stupid. So stupid. So stupid…

Sam needed Dean. He was being held by people who had a history of murdering people like him — people with powers and demon blood in them, and right now, Sam needed Dean… he needed Dean…

It was time to wake up.

Dean's eyelids fluttered weakly again, and he pried them open, feeling his eyes sting at the very assault. Tears clouded his vision and he blinked them out of his eyes as he tried to focus and—

"Dean."

He turned around, to see Sam. His brother was sitting against a wall, bound by chains, sporting a weak smile on his sweaty, tired face. "Welcome back," he said exasperatedly.

**~o~**

"So… they're killing these kids, _how_?"

Dean rested his head against the wall as a drop of water fell on his head. Because, of course he was bound right below a fucking leaky pipe. The thing was dripping regularly, and had dampened most of Dean's upper body, and he felt cold. But, he thought, as he looked at his brother, at least Sam was dry.

"Withdrawal," Sam said, in reply to Dean's question. "They're feeding the kids, waiting for the dependence to set in and become intense, and then they're taking away the demon blood. Going cold turkey isn't something that's recommended even for adults, much less for kids."

Dean swallowed guiltily. He had let Sam go into dangerous withdrawal, without any weaning, or any help, just like that, and he had done it twice. Although, granted, had there been a rehab-approved method of demon blood detox, Dean would have used that technique. Unfortunately, there wasn't one.

There were more pressing issues right now, though, because if the children had been fed demon blood…

Dean took a deep breath, and drank in Sam's appearance. His brother was shivering lightly, eyes mostly downcast and sunken, and his face was pale and moist. Dean recognised these symptoms. He licked his lip. "They gave you the blood too."

It wasn't a question. He wasn't even reprimanding Sam.

His brother seemed to shrink down. "I tried spitting it out."

Dean nodded. "I know you did." Sam looked up to meet eyes with Dean, and Dean nodded again, reassuringly. "I know you did, Sam."

Sam blinked, devastation appearing on every bit of his face. "Th-they had me chained, Dean. They drugged me. And they've been forcing m-me to drink a-and I don't…" He looked close to tears, and Dean felt his heart sink. He moved a little, trying to get to Sam, but the chains were too heavy. So he caught his brother's eyes.

"I trust you, okay?"

"O-Okay. I'm – I'm—" Sam sniffled.

"Sammy, don't, man." _Don't apologise._

Sam's seemed to break further as he looked away, at the floor. Dean took a deep breath. "How long have you been in withdrawal?"

"I…" Sam swallowed, "a little after they brought you in."

Dean sighed. "We'll take care of it, okay? Once I kill these bastards—"

"I don't think they're done, Dean," Sam said in a small voice. "They want me dead."

"They can't _kill_ you by inflicting withdrawal. You know that."

"But they won't stop trying."

Sam sounded so low, so defeated, that Dean was sure he heard his own heart shatter. The Mark on his arm burned, and he grit his teeth against the mix of emotions. "I will kill them, Sammy."

Sam opened his mouth, but there was another voice. "No, you won't."

The voice was strong, male, and Dean turned to see a man walk into the room. He was bulky, and he wore jeans and a hoodie over it, hood pulled low over his face. He was holding a goblet in his hands.

He stopped, and turned briefly to Dean. "You won't kill us, Dean."

"Oh, you underestimate me," Dean snarled, but the other man ignored him. He walked to Sam and crouched before him. Anger pulsated through Dean as he realised what was in the goblet and he saw Sam's troubled face once, before growling, "Don't you touch him, you fucker!"

The hooded man sniggered, not facing Dean. "And what are you going to do?"

"I will—"

"— You won't kill me," he said, interrupting Dean. "Pick another phrase, would you?" He reached forward and fisted Sam's hair, before tilting his head backwards.

"No!" Sam groaned, beginning to struggle.

"We've been through this," the other man said. "You tried not to drink the blood, and you failed. Stop wasting your energy, Sam."

Sam didn't listen to him, though, and he continued to fight, until the other man tilted the goblet against Sam's lips, letting the blood flow out, so that it dribbled down Sam's chin and clothes, and when Sam was still stubborn, he planted an uppercut to Sam's jaw.

Dean watched as his brother let out a groan of pain, opening his mouth long enough for the goblet to tip its contents in, and Sam's captor's hand came to clamp against his mouth, so that he wouldn't spit it out.

Sam twitched away, gagging.

"Stop!" Dean raged but the man kept his hand on Sam's mouth, and didn't turn to look at Dean, who was now starting to struggle against his chains so hard, there was fresh blood coating his hands. He ignored the sharp, stinging pain, though.

"Stop!"

It didn't stop. And Dean watched, heart thumping against his chest madly, as Sam struggled and fought against being fed the blood, his head whipping from side-to-side as his legs kicked at his attacker. He was bound, though, and the withdrawal was making him weak, and Dean watched — anger, devastation, pity, and a lot of other things boiling in him as he wished, _wished_ that he could help his little brother.

And Sam tried, Sam tried his damnedest, but he lost. His legs stopped kicking and he slumped against the wall, defeated when the demon blood went down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing in reflex, swallowing. The hooded man chuckled victoriously when he had finished feeding Sam the contents of the goblet. He stood up as Sam rested his head against the wall, his eyes squeezing shut against what Dean knew were tears.

And then the hooded man turned to Dean. "This is what it's going to be like, Dean, and you will keep watching this."

"No, I won't," Dean warned him. "And you know what, you won't either. 'Cause I'll fucking rip your throat out."

The other man chuckled. "With those chains on? I'd like to see you try."

Dean glared at him. "Then let me out, you bastard, and I'll prove it to you." His arm gave a twinge, and the skin near the Mark burned. "Let's fight as equals. We'll see who wins."

The man shook his head. "And why would I do that, Dean? You're ridiculous."

He was leaving the room, but anger — vile, burning rage, filled Dean. He wanted to grab this man and punch him. Tear him to pieces. Kill, maim, injure… but he couldn't, he couldn't, and he was tied up. But if he were free…

Dean's next words came out in a low snarl. "Then why do you have us here?"

"Dean—" Sam began, interrupting him for the first time, but Dean ignored him.

"If it's me you're after," Dean called out at the hooded man, "then tackle me. Let my brother go."

"No!" Sam protested, but Dean disregarded him again.

"Come back here!" he told the hooded man. "And face me if you have the guts to do it. Face me, you bastard! Tell us why you're doing this."

There was silence. Then, slowly, the man re-entered the room. He crouched before Dean and lowered his hood, revealing a young face of a man in his early-mid-twenties. He had close-cropped hair, and dark eyes. Dean had never seen him before.

"My name is Phil," he said, before Dean could talk. "I used to be in college, you know — I was a pre-med."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You made your tranq gun?"

"Haloperidol," Phil replied. "And yes, I made it."

"Good. Continue your medical experiments elsewhere, you freak," Dean told him. "Let Sam and those poor kids go, and we'll sort this out like adults."

Phil scoffed. "Poor kids? _Poor kids_? Are you seriously telling me that?"

"Unless they were born with evil plans in their head," Dean said, "yeah, poor kids."

"They are evil, Dean," Phil replied, and his eyes flashed. "They are as dangerous as you and Sam."

"Uh, no, they aren't."

Phil stood up, walking over to Sam, who was eyeing him warily. He briefly checked Sam's chains, and then turned to look at Dean again. "I was nineteen."

"When you realised that Mommy didn't love you?" Dean snarked.

"Shut up," Phil snapped. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them. "I was nineteen, and I was in college, and I got a call."

"That Mommy—"

"That my mom and dad were dead!" Phil replied in a loud voice. "That their bodies had been found in the house, and that something had ripped them to shreds." He met eyes with Dean. "This was in the year twenty-ten. You wanna argue more, or do you remember?"

Dean looked at the young psychopath before him, until it clicked together. Oh. _Oh_.

"The Apocalypse," he whispered.

"The demons really enjoyed themselves," said Phil, his voice wavering. "And when I dug into this, and found out about the supernatural, guess whose name came up."

Dean licked his lip, about to reply, when Sam spoke up from the other side. "The Apocalypse was my fault. You want to deal with this, deal with me."

Phil was about to turn to Sam, but Dean stopped him. "My brother might have started the Apocalypse, but he stopped it too, Phil. And he gave up a great deal for that."

"Let him go," Sam spoke, before Phil could reply.

"Don't blame him," Dean countered desperately, trying to catch Sam's eyes to glare at him to shut up.

Phil laughed. "Touching. But, no. I'm not letting either of you go. Because the Apocalypse was both your faults. And Sam," he turned to Dean's brother, "I don't care what you gave up to stop the Apocalypse. My parents aren't coming back. So you're going to go where they didn't. Hell."

Without another word, he walked out of the room, leaving Sam and Dean to look at each other helplessly.

**~o~**

"So this is a cult."

Sam rested his head against the wall, swallowing down the intense thirst that was crying out for more blood. He could feel his hands trembling, and his heart beat at a crazy speed, signalling to him that withdrawal was beginning. He wasn't ready for this. He _so_ didn't want to go through the withdrawal and the detox — again — and fuck, why was this happening?

"I guess," Dean replied to Sam's question, his voice sounding distant.

Sam opened an eye to glance at his brother.

_My brother might have started the Apocalypse, but he stopped it too. And he gave up a great deal for that._

Sam couldn't believe that Dean had said that — that Dean had faith in his sacrifice.

All their lives, Sam and Dean had only counted each other's faults. They'd only fought over what the other person hadn't done, rather what they had done for each other. And maybe that was why they were where they were now, but was there a way to mend this? Would they ever be able to go there?

He swallowed again, remembering how Dean hadn't been feeling very well the previous day. Sam took a deep breath. "You shouldn't have come, Dean," he said, in a low voice.

"Screw you," Dean responded. "You handcuffed me."

"Because you weren't feeling—"

"I am okay, Sam," Dean replied exasperatedly. "I am fan-fucking-tastic. Will you stop getting your panties in a bunch?"

Sam shot a glance at him, and his arm. "The Mark is red."

"It's the freaking chain," Dean replied. "Grazed my arm against it."

"Are you sure?"

"Once again, Sam, it's _my_ fucking arm, and believe me, I am _sure_."

There was silence.

"We need to get out of here, Dean," said Sam. "I—" his hand trembled, and he looked down at it. "They…" he sighed, knowing he'd let his brother down again. "I'm sorry."

Dean didn't reply for a moment, and Sam was relieved when he finally broke the silence. "You don't have to be, Sammy," he said.

"The demon blood—"

"Not your fault," said Dean. "I saw them, Sam. And I swear, if they come back—"

"They'll come back," said Sam, a lump forming in his throat. "If they give me enough, the withdrawal will actually kill me."

"No," said Dean, and then in a louder voice, "hey, look at me, Sam."

Sam turned his head up, and met gazes with his brother. "They won't touch you again," said Dean. "We'll do something about this."

"How?"

"We will," said Dean. "I'll think of something. You should, too. We'll get out of here and make sure these assholes pay for what they have done."

Sam blinked at his brother, and then nodded. "Okay."

Dean smiled at him. "Now come on. Put your geeky mind to work. Let's think of something."

**0**

**Now**

"D-Dea-Deannn…"

Hot and cold flushes assault your body and you're sweating like a pig one moment, and shivering the other. Your face rests on the porcelain rim of a toilet bowl, and your mouth tastes nasty.

You have never felt this wrecked in a while. You curl your hands around your belly and, try to hold on to your slipping consciousness, as you listen to the sound of running water behind you. In another moment, Dean is crouching beside you, pressing a wet washcloth to your neck.

But you're so hot. Your hands, your legs, your eyes…

"It will pass. Sam, it will pass…"

You listen to Dean's words, and think of how selfish you are. You know he is feeling pretty crappy too, and you haven't let him sleep a wink. He hasn't eaten, has been taking care of you for hours… or days… you don't know… and how can you do this to him?

Your gut cramps, and you turn your head in time to heave into the toilet, only to vomit up more and more acidic brown. Your eyes water, the metallic taste in your mouth nauseating you more as you retch, and Dean hums something into your ear as he remains crouched patiently behind you.

More blood. Too much blood. You're dying.

"Sammy," Dean whispers, as you pause to take a breath between heaves. "It's just the blood they made you drink. It's okay, man."

The cramps get worse and you're heaving more terribly than ever, each spasm ripping through you, as though it's torture designed especially for you.

Jess would think you deserve this.

A sob escapes you, and Dean sighs behind you, as he lays a hand on your back. You don't know why he's being so understanding. He would never be this way under normal circumstances. He'd just let you fend for yourself, while he went through a gallon of whiskey, but he's here, and why is he here…?

You retch again, and moan as your head throbs. Dean pats your back once, twice. "It's okay," he says. "Just get it out of your system, Sam."

When the vomiting stops, Dean runs a washcloth over your mouth and flushes the toilet, before getting up to fill a glass of water for you. However, when he's sitting beside you again, instead of taking the water from him, you lean over to rest your head on his shoulder and let out hot, rattling breaths against his neck. He puts a hand on your head and his fingers slide through your sweaty hair, as he whispers into your ear, "It's okay, Sammy. Get some rest."

No, it's not okay. You know that, and Dean knows that. You hate yourself for being so needy, but you don't know if he'll be disappointed in you later on, so while he's looking after you, you want to milk it all. It's selfish, and you know it. But Dean says it's okay, and you will listen to him. Because he's your big brother, and it's the two of you, against the world.

_Let each dawn black be, may the dusk be dark_

_Burn will my flaming soul, bear will it my light_

_Let the night hit me; hit me on its mark_

_With my breath and life, will this I forever fight_

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><p><strong>AN: **Reviews? :D


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Thank you for all the support! Here's the last chapter, and then there's an epilogue, bearing some answers and explanations.

Hope you like, and reviews are amazing! :D

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><p><strong>TO SUFFER AND BE STRONG<strong>

**Six**

**Then**

Sam's mind was restless, jumping about from thought-to-thought as erratically as his heartbeat. He felt like he couldn't get enough air, and Dean watched him sympathetically he tried to take deep breaths, and then went back to breathing fast and shallow. Sam's chest hurt and his head ached. He clenched his fists again and again, willing himself to concentrate, as Dean tried to run through the rather terrible, holey plan they'd put together.

Sam shut his eyes and listened to his brother, hoping he could get it all right. The chances for doing so were bleak, but what the hell, maybe if they tried really hard and did it with enough conviction, maybe they could pull it off.

A few minutes later, there was a sound of heavy metal scraping against stone. Sam looked at Dean, who was drenched from water from the pipe above him and cursing wildly. The sound of Phil's arrival made them both grow quiet, though, as they waited for Phil to come back with the next dose of demon blood.

Phil entered without this hood this time, but was followed by another person, whose hood didn't conceal her slenderness. She held the goblet this time, and as she proceeded towards Sam, Dean interrupted her. "Wait."

Phil raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"We have a deal."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Hear me out," Dean told him, his eyes wide and convincing.

Phil signalled to the woman to halt, and Sam watched, as he put his hands on his hips. "What is it?"

"We know some hunters," said Dean, "who can hook you up with everything about the Apocalypse. My own friend — he's an angel, and he'll tell you, and hear them out, and if you feel like we're still lying, I'll tell you where we are, and you can come and get us. The Apocalypse was no one's fault. It happened under some circumstances, and you gotta understand—"

"Stop, Dean," Phil interrupted him, as he tilted his head. "What kind of an idiot do you take me for?" He paused. "You think I don't know everything about you two? That I don't expect you to turn around and hit me and run away at the first moment? You thought I wouldn't realise that you were lying, just so you could escape?" He chuckled. "You really thought this dumbass plan of yours would work? After all I've heard about you two, I expected better."

Sam met his eyes with his brother, as Phil signalled to the woman again. "Give him the blood, Irene."

"Don't you dare," Dean snarled, as Irene crouched before Sam.

"I don't think you have a say," Phil said plainly.

Sam shut his mouth and looked away, already fighting the goblet, but Irene grasped his jaw and pushed the rim of the goblet between his lips.

"Drink it," said Phil from the background. "We don't want to hit you again, Sam."

There was a beat of silence, except for Sam's ragged breaths, with the goblet against his mouth. And then, Sam heard his brother's voice. "You will not touch my little brother."

Sam could never quite remember what happened after that, as the whole world sunk into a dizzying blur, too many instincts taking over at once. And he felt the power in him — the undeniable, unadulterated strength as his mind buzzed and his heart thumped, the sensations growing stronger with each drop of blood that entered him.

He was _high_.

**~o~**

Dean had never felt such raw fury course through him. He could feel his whole body trembling, his hands struggling against the iron shackles, sending stinging pain up his wrists and causing more blood to stream down.

Phil laughed, as Irene bent forward some more and Dean watched Sam slump, mouth growing slacker to accept the demon blood, and his chest starting to heave.

When Irene stood up again, Sam seemed to deflate, narrowed eyes trailing her, his jaw working, until Phil offered her another goblet. "Give him more."

The words struck something in Dean. He didn't know what, but he took one look at Sam, who was sitting tall and pissed, but still shrank down enough to cast a worried glance at Dean.

At that moment, when he looked into Sam's eyes, something broke inside of Dean.

He wasn't even sure what was happening around him. His ears rang as rage overtook him, filling every particle of his being. His muscles quivered over their bones, each one feeling like it was contracting and relaxing, his senses going into overdrive.

Everything was red. _Red, red, red, red…_

Phil was going to pay. Dean grit his teeth. Phil was—

He suddenly wasn't being held back by the wall anymore. He stood up, dragging his chains, hearing the vague whisper of a voice…

_"__What the fuck? How did you do that?!"_

Someone screamed, and before Dean knew it, his blood-coated hands were pushing Phil against the wall, going to clasp his neck.

"No! No!" Hands fought Dean and he turned around to Irene and caught her by the shoulders, before pushing her hard against the other wall. The back of her head hit stone with a satisfying crunch and she slid down to the floor, eyes gaping and blood streaming down the wall at the back of her head. And it was all just in a second; in a second, when—

"Clyde! Rich! Tabitha!" Phil cried out, his voice hoarse, but loud, and Dean went back to Phil, kicking him against the wall and clutching at Phil's throat again. His fingers tightened around skin, and he could feel the ridges of Phil's windpipe as he pressed harder. Phil choked, eyes bulging, as Dean increased the tightness of his grip.

_"__Dean!"_

That was when he heard another voice. It seemed like it was from afar, but he recognised it… it was… it was…

_"__Dean!"_

_Sammy._

Phil struggled, body arching against the wall, and Dean grit his teeth, determined to complete the job.

_"__Dean, stop!"_

_Sammy._

His mind diverted to his brother and he looked away, from his prey — from Phil, to see Sam still bound, but very deflated, despite his high. Sam shook his head. "Stop."

Dean's hands came off Phil, as though his skin burned to his touch, and he looked back at Sam, who stared at him with a mixture of fear, guilt and revulsion. Phil, in the meantime, plonked to the floor with a thud.

There was silence. Dean stared at his brother, knowing they didn't have time, because Phil had already called out to his friends.

Sam licked his lips. "We need to get out of here," he said, his voice trembling.

Dean nodded numbly and fell to his knees, next to Phil, and began to rummage through his pockets for a key, but found none. He did get a gun, though — a Glock, and he pocketed it. And then he noticed Irene. She was dead — her eyes staring into space and her lips pale. Her blood had stained the wall behind, and the sight alone sent nausea rolling through Dean's stomach.

What had he done? What had he been about to do to Phil?

He heard footsteps, and dismissed the thoughts as he reached for Irene's hair and found one of the pins holding her blonde strands back — a lucky coincidence, he supposed, but his hand came back stained in congealed blood, and he had to fight off a rising nausea.

He hurried to Sam as the footsteps grew louder, and had managed to pry one shackle open, when three people entered the room. He looked at Sam, who still seemed a little scared, and gave him the pin, before standing up to aim Phil's Glock at his friends.

"What did you do?" the woman — apparently named Tabitha, asked Dean. "What did you do to Phil and Irene, you freak?!"

He felt the anger flare up again, and raised an eyebrow at the woman. "Your girlfriend there is dead. Phil is okay, although that could change, if you don't let us go." He aimed his gun at the unconscious man.

Tabitha aimed her own gun at Sam. "Don't move."

"Don't touch him," Dean warned her, before Sam could reply.

One of the men near Tabitha pulled out his own gun, and cocked it. "It's three against one," he said. "Back off, buddy."

"It was two against one just now," Dean replied. "And guess who won. So you back off, _buddy_," he said, almost spitting the words at the man. Just then, behind Dean, there was a clanging sound, and before he knew it, Sam was at his side.

"Let us go," Sam said calmly, but threateningly, to the three people before them. He seemed to be breathing deeply and he stood to his full height, towering over Dean and their attackers. Dean's breath caught in his throat. He had seen Sam this hopped up on blood — this _high_ — very few times, and the memories associated with that hadn't been pleasant. Dean knew this was bad. This was possibly worse than the time with Famine, and it ranged close to the time that Sam had said yes to Lucifer.

Dean's anger took over again. These people — these bastards had done this to Sam. After everything that had happened, everything they'd been through, Sammy had been clean so many years, and these people… they had fed him blood. They had taken Sam's weakness, and forced him to give in to it.

The anger still sparking inside him, Dean began to walk forward, causing the third guy to pull out his gun. "Stop!"

Dean took another step, when there was a shot. He dodged the bullet, the reflex coming too easy to be natural.

Before Dean knew it, before another shot could be fired, his fists were crashing against the man's face. He heard a growl as the other man hurled himself at Dean, and he stopped punching the first guy for a moment, before swinging at the other one.

It was too easy to break them — to harm them — and his soul, his heart, danced in satisfaction and pleasure with each blow he delivered. He could see Sam tackling Tabitha from the corner of his vision, and he wished he could have fought her too — because this made him so happy — so happy…

"Dean!"

It was Sam again — the grounding voice, but Dean didn't want to leave. He didn't want to stop. This was so good — so, _so_ good.

A hand clasped at his wrist, and another punched away Dean's opponent, who fell to the floor, unable to hold his own. Dean felt more happiness in him, flames of intense satisfaction licking at his heart and soul, and Dean barely registered his footing as he was pulled out of the room, into another, another, and…

"Dean. Dean, are you all right?"

He was sitting on something, and he said yes — he thought he did, but he wanted to go back and kill, the buzz in his head advising him to go back and do so, but Sam was stopping him.

"Shit, where is the car?"

Sam's voice was unsteady. Dean wasn't sure what was going on.

"Dean…"

Sam was sweating. Dean didn't know what was happening, but everything was a blur. He heard a familiar creak, and he was folded into a seat. Leather squeaked underneath him and hands pushed him back as a door shut, and Dean tilted forward, his head hitting something smooth.

Then another door opened and shut, and there was silence, except for breathing. It was fast, shallow breathing and Dean tried to breathe too, to clear out the trembling that wracked his body, and against the urge to kill someone else, as his senses stopped short-circuiting all around the place.

His vision blurred and doubled, and he realised he was in the Impala, on the passenger side, with Sam at the wheel, but they weren't moving. And he looked at Sam, only to watch his brother's blurry figure spilled against the wheel, his consciousness long gone.

Before Dean could do anything else, the blackness came for him too, taking him away with it, to a realm he had explored too many times.

**~o~**

Dean opened his eyes to a sharp ray of sun falling over his face, warming his skin. His neck hurt and his heart thumped at high speed inside his chest, while nausea bubbled in his stomach.

He was incredibly uncomfortable, and he couldn't figure out why.

That was when the memories hit. Phil. Irene. Tabitha…

Dean's eyes snapped open as he sat up straight on his seat. His nausea reached its crescendo and he swallowed it down with great difficulty, before looking at Sam, who was still slumped against the wheel in the driver's seat. Dean took a deep breath, willing his body not to tremble or shake. He was detoxing from the Mark — he recognised the symptoms from before, but he had to get him and Sam out of here before the cops found them.

Dean clenched his fists, as Sam moaned. God, what had he done back there, with those freaks? Phil and the others were murderers, yes, but Dean hadn't meant to kill anyone — it had gotten out of hand too soon, and what was Dean supposed to do now? How would he ever explain himself to Sammy? Sammy — who believed him, and trusted him again, despite everything.

_Oh God. Oh God, oh God._

A moan distracted Dean from his thoughts, and he turned to Sam, whose eyes fluttered as he moved, his body already in the initial throes of his own withdrawal. Dean felt something squeeze at his heart. Sam's detox was going to be a hundred times worse than what Dean was going through, and he needed to get his brother to a motel, or someplace comfortable, to ride out the worst of it.

This sucked.

Dean swallowed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, before gathering all his energy and pushing the passenger side door open. He shut it behind him, moved over to the other side and opened it, before squeezing into the little space on the bench seat and nudging Sam to the other side with his hips. "Come on, Sammy," he muttered, as he adjusted himself, pushing gently at Sam the whole way, until Sam groaned and opened his eyes.

Dean smiled at him. "Sam?"

A drop of sweat trailed down Sam's forehead and chased a path down his nose, to hang on to its tip. He took one breath, and then another. "D-D'n?"

Dean nodded. "Let's get you home."

Battling his own shakes, he turned on the ignition, when a clammy hand placed itself on his wrist. He turned, to see Sam crack a faint smile at him, before his eyes rolled shut. "Th-Th'nkss…"

**0**

**Now**

The first hint you get about Dean possibly being as screwed up as you is when you, in a brief moment of consciousness, hear him gagging and spitting into the toilet just like you were, the last time you were awake. That is when you understand why he hasn't left you on your own this time. It's because he's detoxing too, and he has been through the same before. With the Mark. He has had to forcefully detox before, and although he never told you about it, you just know it happened.

He _empathises._

Funny, how addiction works. You can never completely be back to what you were, because you have a permanent weakness once you're an addict. It doesn't matter how long you've been clean. Falling off the wagon is a constant threat. And when it comes to you and Dean, of course, of course it has to have happened this way.

This is life, as you and Dean know it. You never had it easy. You'll never have it easy.

A few hours (days?) later, is your second hint. Dean helps you to the bathroom, and he is shivering, and looks flushed, but isn't warm. You realise he's having a cold flush. You also smell whiskey in his breath, and remember how he had drunk up full bottles earlier, and realise that this probably helps. Or, at least, Dean seems to think it will help. You know that it doesn't really help, though. You know it's only an illusion.

The next time you sleep for long, you wake up handcuffed to the bed, and can't make out heads or tails of your surroundings. Dean is kneeling beside you, and his face looks pale, and that's when you feel the sudden, sharp pain in your tongue. You realise, at that point, that you've had a seizure, and you don't blame Dean for looking stressed enough, that he might pass out at any moment.

He dabs the washcloth all over your face again, and he fusses with your pillow, helps you gulp down water, and keeps worrying, until you grasp weakly onto his wrist and coax him to sit beside your bed. He listens to you, and you turn slightly, towards him, before raising a handcuffed palm to his neck, and easing his head down to your mattress.

"Sleep, D-Dean," you whisper, your tongue muscles screaming bloody murder at every word.

He protests, but you remain persistent, as your hand moves from his neck and brushes lightly over his hair, coming to rest on the top of his head. He focusses green eyes on you, and takes a small breath, breaking your heart with the tears welling in them, that he quickly blinks back.

You know he's feeling as screwed-up as you are. You know he feels equally guilty and pathetic. You know he thinks he's weak. But he's taught you better.

So you give him a faint smile. "S-Sl'p. 'S gonna be 'kay."

And, for the first time since this ordeal began, he obeys you.

_Burn will my soul; bear will it the light_

_Round and round will the world now go_

_With my life, will this I fight_

_Into the abyss, will I not fall slow._


	7. Epilogue

A/N: Hello, lovelies! Thank you so much for your support!

So this is where the story ends. Hoped you enjoyed the ride! My fics are usually more complicated on a lot of levels, so it was very nice to do something like this for a change. :) The next post I make, will be the poem, fully assembled from all the chapters, haha. Anyway, thank youuu! I love you guys!

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><p><strong>TO SUFFER AND BE STRONG<strong>

**Epilogue**

_"__Thanks, yeah, thanks, Tracy."_

There is something very wrong with Dean's voice…

Your consciousness lilts, sways, and staggers to win over the inviting darkness. Your body aches, a severe pounding occupying your whole forehead and spreading to the backs of your eyes. Your muscles feel like someone has frozen them, and your lips are so dry, they sting.

You keep your eyes shut, as you listen to Dean's soothing voice, coming from somewhere close. You can't figure out where, though. Dammit.

"He'll be okay," Dean mutters, and sniffs. You take a deep breath, as Dean speaks again. "Hey, it was not your fault. But tell that ex-boyfriend of yours…" he pauses there, and you hear Dean let out a sharp breath. "Yeah." He pauses again. "Thanks. Bye."

You settle further into your mattress as you hear Dean cancelling the call. A few moments later, you feel a comforting weight beside you.

"Sammy?" _Gosh, what's wrong with Dean's voice?_

You try to open your eyes, but you really can't. So you settle to tilting your face towards Dean, who chuckles. "Open your eyes, you lazy—" Dean cuts himself off abruptly, to sneeze loudly, and resumes, "— lazy bitch." He sniffles again, and you finally understand what is wrong with Dean's voice. A smile creeps up your lips at that.

"What are you smirking at?" Dean sounds amused.

You finally gather the strength to crack an eyelid open. "Y'have a cold," you whisper, your voice coming out more hoarse and tired than you expected.

When you open your other eye and focus on Dean's face, you realise that Dean looks very tired as well. There are dark bags under his eyes, and he has stubble on his face, which means that he either hasn't had the time, or the willpower to shave… for…

You frown. "How long h've I been out?"

Dean rubs a finger over his eyes. "Five days." He coughs lightly, and tugs at the blanket around your shoulders.

You squint at him. "You're s'ck."

Dean shrugs. "It's because of that damn leaky pipe from the room where they'd kept us. I'll be okay."

You look into his eyes, and a thousand other things are suddenly coming up in your head. You then start to remember — and you remember every moment of what had happened — five days ago, apparently, and you cannot forget the raw, animal look in Dean's eyes from when he had hit Phil and killed Irene.

You can't forget how Dean had managed to break the chains — the fucking _iron_ shackles, just because he was _angry_ enough, and you know that wasn't normal — that wasn't _nearly_ normal, but you also know another thing. Dean had done it all to save your life.

All your life, you've been too ungrateful to Dean for everything he has done for you, and you have just come to realise how heavy some prices can be. You have relearned the purpose of everything you are doing with Dean — and you remember the lengths you have gone for each other. You have understood the value of the smaller things — the real things, that somehow, you and Dean had overlooked, but some teenagers in a high school musical hadn't. And that alone makes you smile. You should send flowers to those girls when you get some time. They have returned your brother to you. They have laid the foundation to rebuild faith between you and Dean. They have made you want to return to Dean.

"What are you smiling for?" Dean asks inquisitively, and you shake your head at your brother, before heaving yourself up, so you can rest against the headboard. Your brother's hands are immediately there to help you, and calloused fingers hold the back of your neck comfortingly as Dean helps you rest. "Easy," he says. "You've had a rough few days, man."

"M'okay," you say to him.

"D'you want some water?"

You swallow at the dryness in your throat. "Yeah, that would be nice."

Dean turns to pour out water from a small jug, and he gives you the glass, which you raise to your his lips with trembling fingers. The cool liquid douses the fire and dryness in your mouth and throat as it goes down, and you take slow, measured sips, letting the bliss take over.

He waits for you to finish, and you glance at him, realising he has something he wants to say. He finds his opening when you set the water down. "So, you know," he begins, "when I came to look for you, I fell asleep. And… I kinda… _heard_ you. You were calling out… I don't know." He braces himself, and takes a deep breath. "I heard you in my head, Sam."

You blink at him. When you'd been tied up; when those horrible people were forcing blood down your throat, you might have hoped your brother could just come in and help you. But… was this really possible? Or was Dean just really _dreaming, _as a happy coincidence?

"It's how I knew you were in deep shit," Dean continues. "And it wasn't a normal dream. Did you consciously do it, or…?"

You can tell he's scared of some weird, new powers coming to play after so many years. But you know better, so you shake your head. "I was high on demon blood. It wouldn't be impossible for me to manifest some weird psychic powers at that point, Dean. I was kinda desperate to get out of there, you know." You don't add the part that as brothers, you and Dean are pretty much connected too, and it could also be just his deep-seated instincts in play.

He looks at you sympathetically. "You feelin' any better, now?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Peachy," he says. You know he's lying, but you don't call him out on it.

"So… I take it you talked to Tracy?" you enquire.

"Yeah," Dean replies. He glares. "It was stupid of you to go charging to face those people when she warned you, Sam."

You raise an eyebrow at your brother. "Would you have stayed back?"

"That's beside the point, I—"

"They killed kids, Dean," you say, sadness filling you. "_Kids_. I still don't get why they did that."

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "They were crazy, man." He pauses. "Tracy told me — and she took care of them, too. The ones alive… well… they're in prison now. These people all lost their families in the Apocalypse. And they didn't take it the way Tracy did."

You let out a sigh. "I wonder how many people are—"

"Hey," Dean interrupts you. "No wallowing. No blaming yourself. It wasn't your fault, okay? I mean, we should have talked about this years ago — but the Apocalypse wasn't your fault, Sam."

That catches you by surprise. Dean never says stuff like this. He's never said that. Why would he say it now? Does he believe it? Does he believe _you_?

You try to ignore the rising emotions, as you snort. "When did you get so sentimental?"

"Shut up," Dean replies, and as an addition, he flips you off. "But really, Sam," he says, "don't blame yourself, man."

You meet eyes with your brother, and then nod slowly. "I won't." You pause. "If you don't blame yourself for the shit you did as a demon."

He blinks at you, and raises a hand to scratch the back of his neck. "Uh… about that, I know I said some things, Sammy—"

"— It wasn't you."

"No, it wasn't me, and I didn't mean it, and it sure as hell isn't true," he says, quietly. You look at him, heart coming up to your throat, because this was the only reassurance you needed — the only thing you needed to hang on to.

You take a deep breath. "I know…" and you hesitate, for a moment, but you say it. "Thanks, Dean."

He looks directly into your eyes. "So you won't blame yourself either? For the Apocalypse?"

You nod, unable to open your mouth for the fear of an embarrassing sound, or something of that nature coming out of it. However, deep in your heart, you know you're lying. You know you can never stop blaming yourself for the Apocalypse and all the crap that followed (because, how wasn't it your fault?). But, as you watch Dean unconsciously rub at his Mark, you also decide on another thing. You aren't going to reprimand Dean, or question him about the Mark anymore. You aren't going to bug Dean about it at all — but you definitely know one thing: you're going to protect your big brother. And you will do _anything_ to get Dean out of this situation.

Absolutely anything.

You don't realise you're staring at Dean, until your brother interrupts your thought process by clearing his throat.

"Earth to Sammy?" he says suddenly, snapping you out of your reverie. "What are you day-dreaming about?"

You shake your head. "Nothing."

"Uh huh?" Dean replies, "And am I supposed to believe that?"

You shrug. "If you wanna."

"Shut up."

"You've been saying that a lot lately, Dean."

"Well…"

_"__Shut up?"_

You grin up at Dean, who looks mildly annoyed. But when he sees that you're smiling too, he leans against the headboard, like you, the smile reaching his eyes for the first time in ages. You reach for your blanket, and adjust it around yourself. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy."

"It's the two of us against the world. You know that, right?"

Dean scoffs. "You gotta stop saying that too."

"It's better than 'shut up'."

"Shut up, Sam."

"See?"

"You were better off unconscious, you know."

"I know, Dean. I know. You were better off when I was unconscious too."

His eyes sparkle as he chuckles, and he grabs the remote. "Wanna watch a game or something?"

"Tennis?"

"Sure, Sharapova, and then we can get pedicures together."

You frown at him. "Tennis is a great game, Dean. It requires some good—"

"Movie, then," Dean interrupts you, as he switches on the TV and begins browsing through the channels. You flash your best expression of annoyance at him, and hope for it to burn through his skin, but unfortunately, it doesn't. He notices your face, though.

"Quit it with the bitch-face, Sammy."

You huff at him and turn your attention to the TV, and think about your latest week. It seems like you and Dean can never catch a break from anything; and life always seems to be putting you through the grinder. But it's great to come out of the other end, shrug it all off, and watch TV with your brother. In certain occasions, you and Dean will talk about it at some point, but you mostly won't discuss it again. However, it's amazing to know that even though you suffer, you do always come out of it stronger.

_"__Oh, fear not in a world like this,_

_And thou shalt know erelong,—_

_Know how sublime a thing it is_

_To suffer and be strong."_

**_The Light of Stars._**

**HW Longfellow**

**The End**

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><p><strong>AN: **And, that's that! Do go further if you want to read the whole poem. :)

Feedback is awesome, and reviews are gold. :D Also, I'd like to thank, once again, **SPNxBookworm/Sanjana**, for her immense, immense support, and her faith in me. If you like hurt!Sam, she's the person to go to. And she's awesome with that. :D

As for me, I've got a fic going right now -_ Twenty-One Days_, and it's a timestamp to my fic, **Stand Still and Breathe**, except, it's kinda gen because it takes place before the Destiel begins on SSaB, so there's just a Profound Bond right now. Although, yeah, you could squint some and find the Destiel. :) But, even generally, I love beating the crap out of Sam for some reason, so you'll find a lot in this genre on my profile. :)

Thank you so, so much! I can't thank you guys enough! See you!

Pooja


	8. Poem

**Round and Round**

Round and round; here we go

Life and death and circles more

Into the abyss we fall slow

There's no floor and we soar, we soar

Life twirls, in circles more

Hold on, for it spins too strong

With no floor, you soar and you soar

Catch my hand; or fall I into the wrong

Hold on; for it spins too strong

'Cause little flames do my soul burn

Catch hands, or fall I into the wrong

I will not into a monster turn

Little flames do my soul burn

And for each black dawn, is the dusk dark

I will not into a monster turn

Not let the night hit; not on its mark

Let each dawn black be, may the dusk be dark

Burn will my flaming soul, bear will it my light

Let the night hit me; hit me on its mark

With my breath and life, will this I forever fight

Burn will my soul; bear will it the light

Round and round will the world now go

With my life, will this I fight

Into the abyss, will I not fall slow.


End file.
